THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Lawrence  P.  Spinparn 


THE  EUROPEAN  LIBRARY 

EDITED  BY  J.   E,  5PINGARN 


IHt 

IfUROPFAN) 
V  LIBRARY/ 


PLO  P  LL 


BY 

PIERRE  HAMP 


AUTHORIZED  TRANSLATION  BY 

JAMLS  WHITALL 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2I,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND   COMPANY,   INC. 


THE  QUINN  A  BOOEN  COMPANY 
RAHWAY.  N.  J 


24 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction.    By  Elizabeth  Shepley  Sergeant    .       .  vii 

Author's  Preface xiii 

The  Fried-Potato  Sisters -.3 

Nounou .       .  ii  V" 

The  Sweet  Smeller 21  t-" 

Monsieur  Robled's  Throat     .       .       .       .       .       .  29  . 

The  Tight-Wads 37  V^ 

A  Man  with  a  Soft  Job 44  ^ 

Gracieuse 54 

Mademoiselle  Sourire 61   , 

The  Seine  Rises 7* 

At  the  Express  Window 89 

At  the  Chevalier  Restaurant 94 

Fat-Month 104 

The  Fly-Catcher in 

A  Rich  City 119 

"  Miller,  You're  Asleep  " 133 

A  Labour  Demonstration 139 

Boxers 146 

A  Bourbon's  Pleasures 157  w 

The  Joy  Boys 170, 

Monsieur  Becqueriaux 187 

The  King's  C's '    .  193 

The  Screen 199 


862202 


INTRODUCTION 

ONE  of  the  sketches  in  this  volume, "  Fat-Month,"  con- 
cerns an  oven-man  at  a  Paris  pastry-shop.  Fat-Month 
would,  I  think,  have  appeared  to  me  with  the  robust 
plebeian  countenance,  the  straggling  black  moustache, 
the  quick  brown  eye  of  Pierre  Hamp,  even  if  I  had 
not  known  that  the  author  of  "  The  Labour  of  Men  " 
was  once  himself  a  rjastry  cook  who,  during  off  hours, 
read  avidly  in  cheap  copies  of  Victor  Hugo  by  the 
light  of  a  basement  window.  "  Two  things  you  must  al- 
ways care  about:  Justice  and  yer  work,"  says  the  baker 
when  he  is  discharged,  to  "  Colossus,"  his  tiny  ap- 
prentice. That,  in  brief,  is  Hamp's  whole  philosophy. 
And  I  can  see  "  Colossus,"  his  overwhelming  white 
sleeves  tucked  up  from  his  grimy  hands,  gazing  with 
unhappy  longing  after  this  friend  of  the  miserable,  this 
thick-set  apostle  of  good  work  marching  off  so  con- 
fidently into  the  future. 

Hamp  has  indeed  arrived  at  his  place  in  French 
letters  through  the  kind  of  material  struggle  which 
leaves  most  men  voiceless  and  without  hope.  His 
great  strength  is  that  the  struggle  itself  has  made  him 
articulate;  his  great  originality,  that  in  his  evolution 
to  intellectual  power  and  expressiveness  he  has  never 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

renounced  his  workman's  heritage.  Years  as  a  pastry 
cook  in  France,  England  and  Spain,  followed,  after  a 
brief  period  of  study,  by  years  as  a  railway  employee, 
and  then  by  more  years  as  a  factory  inspector  in  the 
textile  north — this  has  been  the  substance  of  his  life. 
He  began  to  write  of  labourers  s  Conrad  wrote  of 
seamen;  because  he  felt  with  them  so  passionately 
that  he  had  to  make  some  written  record  of  their  lives. 
His  books,  though  not  cast  in  autobiographic  form, 
have  the  unmistakable  quality  of  first-hand  experience. 
Hamp  is  perhaps  the  only  writer  in  any  language  who, 
rising  from  the  "  masses,"  has  kept  not  only  the  un- 
sentimental realism  and  the  instinctive  sympathies,  but 
the  muscles,  the  tough  hide,  and  so  to  say  the  craft 
technique  of  the  manual  worker. 

Zola  might  have  conceived  "  Fish,  Fresh  Fish " 
("  Maree  Fraiche  "),  the  history  of  the  lives  involved 
in  the  conveyance  of  a  fish  from  the  Channel  to  the 
Paris  restaurant.  Anatole  France  might  have  written 
the  sketch  of  the  carpenter  in  "  People,"  who,  mending 
the  bookshelf  of  a  dramatic  critic,  learns  with  immod- 
erate surprise  and  laughter  that  this  gentleman  earns 
his  living  by  sitting  in  a  theatre.  But  neither  Zola, 
with  his  naturalism,  nor  France,  with  his  delicate  irony, 
could  have  given  to  the  speech  and  thought  of  their 
working-class  personages  the  tang,  the  poignant  verity 
achieved  by  Hamp.  He  knows  from  having  been  in- 
side their  skins  how  the  fishmonger,  the  carpenter, 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

the  section-hand,  the  textile-worker  feels,  thinks,  eats, 
loves,  most  significantly  how  he  works — works  and 
suffers  and  rebels  from  the  increasingly  machine-made 
civilization  whose  weight  he  carries  on  his  back.  The 
religion  of  the  French  craftsman  of  old  was  that  noth- 
ing must  be  done  unless  it  was  well  done,  and  Hamp's 
books  are  full  of  an  almost  lyrical  celebration  of  the 
"  irreplaceable  "  quality  of  technique  which  is  being 
gradually  displaced  in  modern  life  by  automatic 
\  processes. 

He  sees  his  workmen  not  at  all  as  Conrad  sees  his 
sailors.  Not  as  isolated  individuals  with  romantic  or 
tragic  destinies,  but  always  as  a  part  of  a  complex 
social  and  economic  system,  which  exploits  them, 
squeezes  them  dry.  He  measures  them,  as  he  has 
had  to  measure  himself,  by  their  producing  power, 
and  gauges  their  human  happiness  by  their  good  or 
bad  relation  to  their  work.  Before  the  war  he  sought 
in  vain  for  happy  workmen.  During  the  war  he  found 
some.  In  fact  the  greatest  virtue  of  the  war,  as 
Hamp  the  Socialist  discovered  it  in  "Le  Travail  In- 
vincible" ("  Labour  the  Invincible  ") — that  very  beau- 
tiful book  which  is  chiefly  a  record  of  his  inspections  of 
factories  in  bombarded  areas — was  to  make  men  love 
their  work  again.  "  Professional  probity  becomes  the 
perfect  form  of  patriotism."  And  yet  Hamp  does  not 
oppose  the  mechanization  of  industry.  His  practical 
understanding  reckons  with  all  the  consequences  of 


x  INTRODUCTION 

his  country's  reluctance  to  progress,  and  he  tells  her 
in  plain  terms  what  he  believes  to  be  her  duty  and 
her  necessity, — "  Victory  by  Machinery  "  ("  La  Vic- 
toire  Mecanicienne"). 

Like  the  Belgian  Verhaeren,  Hamp  conceives  the 
modern  industrial  struggle  "  into  which  is  poured  the 
strength  of  men,  and  from  whence  comes  their  inevi- 
table misery,"  as  a  new  field  for  art.  "  In  labour  there 
is  great  beauty,  there  is  religion,  and  when  we  become 
conscious  of  it,  as  the  Greeks  were  conscious  of  the 
beauty  of  the  human  body,  as  Virgil  understood  and 
loved  Nature,  our  art  will  be  a  living  force  hi  our 
civilization."  He  sees  himself  almost  prophetically  as, 
one  of  the  forerunners  of  a  new  literary  technique  and 
takes  peculiar  pleasure  in  writing  of  a  trade  in  its  exact 
trade  terms,  which  are  almost  Choctaw  to  the  average 
reader.  He  sees  himself  also  as  a  documentarian,  and 
pours  out  facts  and  statistics  from  the  crater  of  his 
soul  like  a  conglomerate  stream  of  lava.  The  product 
is  impressionistic;  it  is  sometimes  formless,  opaque  and 
bewildering,  but  almost  always  warm  and  vital  be- 
cause the  heat  in  the  core  of  the  volcano  is  so  intense; 
and  because  this  writer  who  despises  men  of  letters 
and  loves  his  fellow-labourers  is,  after  all,  less  a  scien- 
tific statistician  and  social  reformer  than  a  poet  with 
a  highly  personal  angle  of  vision. 

The  present  volume  is  not  a  collection  of  short 
stories  in  the  usual  American  sense, — stories  with  a 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

neat  development  and  a  climax.  If  they  stay  per- 
sistently in  our  minds  it  is  because,  like  life,  they  have 
no  real  beginning  or  end  and  no  ready-made  solution. 
"  The  Fried-Potato  Sisters  "  who  took  to  prostitution 
from  sweated  work;  "  Nounou,"  the  unmarried  mother 
who  tried  to  be  a  wet-nurse;  "  The  Fly-Catcher,"  the 
weak-minded  incurable,  routed  out  to  vote,  claimed 
and  rewarded  with  a  series  of  drinks  by  rival  factions; 
"  At  the  Chevalier  Restaurant,"  where  the  cooks  rebel 
from  preparing  the  daily  expensive  meal  of  the  pet 
poodle  of  a  fashionable  demi-mondaine — these  and  the  ; 
rest  of  the  sketches  are  like  a  series  of  sharp,  reveal- 
ing pictures  thrown  on  the  screen  of  our  ignorance 
of  what  goes  on  behind  the  polished  surfaces  of  the  \ 
world. 

Who  that  had  always  been  well  fed  could  realize  that 
a  poor  child  asking  for  bread  was  telling  the  truth  be- 
cause she  said,  "  We  ain't  got  enough  to  eat."?  If  she 
had  been  lying,  says  Hamp,  she  would  say,  "  We  ain't 
got  nothing  to  eat."  Hamp's  virtue  as  a  social  philos- 
opher is  that  he  makes  one  know  the  misery  of  the 
unprivileged  classes  as  he  made  one  know  the  horrors 
of  war,  without  admitting  the  possibility  of  despair. 
There  is  nothing  in  his  experience  that  man  cannot 
endure,  and  therefore  accomplish  eventually,  in  the 
way  of  his  own  liberation.  "  We  have  accepted  once 
for  all,"  he  wrote  me  recently,  "  that  our  pleasure 
should  be  in  the  struggle.  It  will  be  hard.  Our  gen- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

eration  will  not  again  know  tranquillity.  But  the  pleas- 
ure of  trying  to  make  things  go  better,  and  the  hope 
that  they  may  be  well  some  day  or  other,  for  us  or  our 
children,  renders  everything  bearable."  There  speaks 
the  father  of  a  sizable  French  family  whom  one  saw 
in  1917-1919  rising  at  five  and  writing  until  ten,  before 
proceeding  to  his  day's  duty  of  settling  disputes  be- 
tween the  workmen  and  the  Munitions  Ministry. 

ELIZABETH  SHEPLEY  SERGEANT. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

THIS  book  was  written  and  in  the  publisher's  hands 
before  the  War,  and  since  then  much  has  happened 
to  the  world  and  to  myself.  To  amuse  oneself  at  the 
game  of  writing  is  a  senile  occupation;  let  us  try 
to  say  the  things  that  must  be  said,  or  be  silent, — 
though  beautiful  French,  from  the  phrases  of  Amyot 
to  the  lines  of  the  Ligende  des  Si&cles,  is  a  source  of 
keen  delight  to  those  who  love  it. 

If  a  purely  literary  work  has  any  reason  for  existing, 
some  excuse  might  be  found  in  a  real  devotion  to  the 
French  language.  Without  comparing  French  to  the 
other  languages  men  speak, — each  one  of  which  has 
its  greatness  if  it  has  great  poets, — but  simply  taking 
it  as  it  is,  and  in  its  deserved  place,  it  can  be  written 
only  by  those  who  love  it  with  intensity  and  complete- 
ness. Let  the  writings  of  those  who  have  loved  beau- 
tiful French  be  forgiven  them,  but  may  contempt  be 
heaped  upon  those  who  string  words  together  as  a 
support  for  their  pride,  and  carelessly  turn  out  books 
in  the  hope, of  securing  a  fleeting  success  and  some 
small  profit.  They  are  trying  to  carve  marble  with 
a  tool  more  suited  to  collecting  mud. 

To  love  the  language  one  writes  is  not  enough,  even 

xiii 


xiv  PREFACE 

for  the  greatest  artist.  He  must  love  men;  and  if,  in 
his  pursuit  of  fine  phrases,  he  visits  them  with  sneer- 
ing sarcasm,  he  deserves  abuse  more  bitter  than  that 
submitted  to  by  Christ.  We  read  the  writings  of 
many  nations,  but  to  us  they  are  as  sounding  brass, 
if  they  have  sprung  from  minds  that  know  no  human 
kindness. 

There  is  agony  in  peoples'  hearts,  and  they  are  grop- 
ing in  the  blood-splashed  darkness  of  Death.  How  in- 
significant seems  the  game  of  writing  now,  with  its 
unreal  treatment  of  things!  Intellectual  absurdities, 
prevalent  among  literary  men,  are  dangerous  to  a 
Nation  stricken  with  fear.  Whether  one  dies  an 
Academician  or  a  man  of  letters,  one  is  no  more  than 
a  corpse,  except  that  one's  body  stays  at  normal  tem- 
perature and  shifts  from  chair  to  chair  in  quest  of 
Literature.  Out  of  our  great  love  for  France,  let  us 
pray  for  a  special  epidemic  to  sweep  away  busy  scribes 
bending  over  their  desks,  and  all  those  who  rush  to  the 
ink  pot  every  morning  to  pad  out  their  flimsy  ideas 
with  words.  What  a  contemptible  trade  writing  is! 
The  Commercial  Code  permits  the  sale  of  writings,  as 
it  does  that  of  unhewn  timber,  but  the  literary  caste 
will  never  admit  its  commercialism.  It  claims  public 
esteem  for  its  disinterestedness,  and  is  totally  un- 
worthy of  it.  Academies  are  as  good  as  Chambers  of 
Commerce.  Literary  prizes  are  as  earnestly  sought 
after  as  bounties  for  the  growing  of  fine  flax,  and 


PREFACE  xv 

those  for  the  exportation  of  sugar  are  coveted  with 
equal  energy. 

What  is  a  man  of  letters  who  is  only  a  man  of  let- 
ters? Cardboard  and  papier  mache!  A  machine  for 
the  production  of  words!  And  the  people  of  the  pen 
are  furious  when  one  calls  them  word-artists. 

The  privilege  of  being  a  man  of  letters  is  not  ob- 
tained as  is  that  of  wearing  a  robe  or  carrying  a  sword. 
Society  has  no  respect  for  writers;  it  considers  well- 
made  shoes  more  necessary  than  inked  paper.  To  go 
barefoot  is  a  far  greater  privation  than  to  live  without 
reading  ineptitudes.  A  writer  cannot  justify  himself 
on  the  ground  of  apostleship, — a  rare  occurrence  in  the 
literary  trade, — but  on  that  of  his  assistance  to  the 
paper  and  cardboard  trades  and  the  bookseller.  If 
publishers  are  ever  able  to  export  pornographic  books, 
the  French  exchange  will  be  strengthened,  and  writers 
who  are  considered  despicable  will  at  least  deserve  the 
felicitations  of  the  Foreign  Trade  Office. 

The  existing  commercialism  of  the  literary  profes- 
sion is  an  inevitable  consequence  of  the  division  of 
labour.  How  splendid  and  sincere  would  be  the  litera- 
ture of  a  nation  whose  people  wrote  only  in  their  leisure 
moments,  and  because  they  felt  moved  to  write!  We 
are  all  specialists  and  cannot  have  two  callings.  A 
flax-spinner  must  spin  flax,  and  though  he  may  possess 
a  fine  mind,  he  cannot  let  us  see  into  it.  A  writer  has 
his  living  to  earn  by  putting  black  on  white,  and  there 


xvi  PREFACE 

is  no  trade  more  deplorable.  If  it  is  stupefying  always 
to  do  and  think  the  same  thing,  then  belles  lettres  can 
dull  one's  mind  as  much  as  selling  meat,  only  one  wears 
cuffs.  The  commercial  end  of  a  writer's  activities  re- 
quires more  compromising  with  conscience  than  is 
made  by  a  reputable  travelling  salesman  who  knows 
the  quality  of  his  goods.  The  presenting  of  copies, 
signed  by  the  author,  to  all  those  who  can  print  a  good 
word  for  it,  is  the  most  important  step  in  the  process 
of  publishing  a  book  after  it  is  bound,  and  no  time 
must  be  lost  in  doing  this.  But  the  flattering  of  critics 
does  not  sell  a  book.  Printed  praise  of  any  commodity 
has  its  price,  and  kissing  a  critic's  toes  is  of  no  avail 
without  a  visit  to  the  cashier  of  the  newspaper.  This 
is  the  accepted  method  of  procuring  publicity.  A  wine 
merchant  presents  knives  and  calendars  to  saloon 
keepers;  a  dealer  in  costly  soaps  publishes  the  signa- 
tures of  prominent  people  who  use  them;  and  a  pub- 
lisher buys  printed  praise  for  his  books. 

To  find  fault  with  business  acumen  shows  a  com- 
plete misunderstanding  of  the  present  state  of  affairs, 
but  one  can  still  have  great  respect  for  the  man  who 
cares  to  write  only  for  his  friends,  and  disdains  to  sell 
the  record  of  his  thoughts. 

Literary  people  are  not  a  select  group,  consecrated 
to  the  self-effacing  duty  of  guarding  the  public  mind. 
Success  in  literature  comes  as  in  politics,  or  the  selling 
of  foodstuffs;  only,  in  the  vermicelli  trade,  you  have 


PREFACE  xvii 

something  to  offer,  and  can  make  good  your  claims. 
In  the  presence  of  his  critics,  a  writer  is  like  a  shame- 
faced travelling  salesman. 

Writers  who  mix  Holy  Water  or  petrol  with  their 
ink,  to  suit  the  rage  of  the  moment,  prove  themselves 
out  of  pace  with  the  times.  And  now,  when  people 
are  hoping  to  be  saved  by  Labour,  Art  has  scarcely 
begun  to  reflect  it.  Worshippers  of  Beauty,  Mysti- 
cism, and  Militarism  have  sung  their  songs  of  Love, 
of  Religion,  and  of  War.  Who  will  sing  to-day  of  the 
splendours  of  Labour  to  the  nations  of  Industry,  and 
of  the  contest  for  wealth,  into  which  is  poured  the 
strength  of  men,  and  from  whence  comes  their  inev- 
itable misery? 

If  there  are  curses,  let  them  be  set  before  us  in 
flaming  letters!  If  it  be  a  song  of  triumph,  then  let 
the  world  echo  with  new  hope. 

What  value  have  our  miserable  little  books,  setting 
forth  the  diversions  of  this  man  and  that  woman,  in  a 
world  that  knows  not  its  destiny,  beside  the  radiant 
love  of  the  Shulamite  or  of  Chloe,  two  thousand  years 
older  than  the  stars  that  once  shone  down  upon  them? 

If  we  are  unworthy,  and  deserving  of  contemptuous 
mockery,  may  our  pride  be  dragged  in  the  dust;  but 
if  there  be  praise  for  our  efforts  and  pity  for  our  suf- 
fering, speak  to  us,  O  thoughtful  and  mighty  Poets! 
In  you  there  is  the  gentleness  of  Virgins  and  the  fury 
of  Prophets, — speak,  Mankind  is  listening. 


xviii  PREFACE 

Men  have  become  the  prey  of  poison  and  fire,  can- 
non and  sword,  but  thy  genius,  O  France,  utters  no 
words  of  pity  for  their  misfortunes  or  denunciation  of 
the  crime. 

The  nation  puts  forth  heroic  efforts,  but  behind 
them  is  suffering  as  deep  as  the  deepest  ocean,  and 
there  is  no  one  to  measure  it,  or  to  listen  to  a  sob 
that  might  echo  through  millions  of  years. 

People  are  worn  out  with  laughter  and  weeping,  yet 
they  cannot  endure  silence,  and  ineptitudes  still  flow 
from  loathsome  pens. 

But  will  the  noblest  thoughts  change  human  nature? 
After  centuries  of  writing,  men,  and  Gods  too, — ser- 
monizing from  the  tops  of  mountains, — have  failed  to 
make  human  beings  less  fond  of  tearing  each  other  to 
pieces  with  artillery,  and  of  living  through  the  disasters 
arranged  by  their  scientists. 

Will  man  emerge  from  the  fury  of  the  storm  with 
discouragement  written  upon  his  brow?  No.  He  will 
be  hopeful  to  the  day  of  his  death.  We  always  covet 
the  impossible;  but  there  is  one  joy  left  to  us,  and  that 
is  the  knowledge  that  men  are  waiting.  For  millions 
of  years  they  have  been  waiting  for  Peace.  War  has 
now  burst  over  them  with  a  violence  surpassing  that 
of  the  mightiest  volcanic  eruption.  Humanity  is  lis- 
tening for  a  voice  to  console  her  for  being  what  she  is, 
and  to  strengthen  her  hope  for  better  things.  She  is 
not  disheartened. 


PREFACE  xix 

The  dawn  of  this  new  epoch  in  the  world's  history 
was  red  with  the  blood  of  men,  and  the  art  of  a  mur- 
dered nation  must  be  sublime  or  it  cannot  exist.  A 
field,  wider  than  any  that  men  have  ever  dealt  with, 
greater  than  War,  richer  than  Beauty,  and  nobler  than 
Love,  now  offers  itself  to  the  artist:  Labour.  Never, 
since  man  has  lived  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  has  the 
toil  that  nourishes  a  love-making,  war-waging  world 
been  reflected  in  human  poetry. 

The  greatest  poet  of  Labour  was  Jehovah,  who  stood 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  called  down  eternal  male- 
dictions upon  the  work  of  men's  hands. 

Torrents  of  suffering  rush  down  upon  us  to-day,  car- 
rying men  off  to  their  mysterious  fate,  but  no  hopeful 
voice  calls  to  us  out  of  the  future.  Minds  keep  silent 
watch,  while  the  valiant  nation  sets  a  superb  example 
of  human  force. 

Out  of  such  splendid  effort,  such  cruel  suffering,  and 
such  hopefulness,  why  do  not  thoughtful  intellects 
arise,  whose  ringing  words  will  create  new  forms? 

Come,  Poet.    The  world  awaits  you. 

PIERRE  HAMP. 


PEOPLE 


THE  FRIED-POTATO  SISTERS 

MARTHA  RONDEFRITE  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  she 
worked  at  home.    She  wanted  as  many  working  hours 
as  possible,  so  she  did  hardly  any  cooking,  and  bought 
things  from  the  pork-butcher.     Two  sous'  worth  of 
fried  potatoes  for  each  person  were  always  ordered, 
according    to    the    family    custom.      Sometimes    her 
eighteen-year-old  sister  Georgette  got  these  on  her 
way  home  in  the  evening,  from  their  favourite  frying- 
cook's  stall,  sandwiched  in  next  to  the  wine-shop. 
Their  unfailing  answer  to  the  neighbours'  question: 
"  Hello,  Martha,  where  are  you  off  to?  " 
"  To  get  two  sous'  worth  of  fried  potatoes." 
"How  goes  it,  Georgette;   where  are  you  comin' 
from?  " 

"  From  gettin'  two  sous'  worth  of  fried  potatoes," 
stuck  to  them  after  a  time,  and  people  called  them 
the  Little  Rondefrites.* 

Mme.  Rondefrite  sold  vegetables  and  fruit  on  a  bar- 
row, by  virtue  of  Municipal  Permit  No.  727  ob- 
tained on  the  death  of  her  man,  Jules  Dame,  cab- 
driver,  who  used  to  say:  "  You  can  live  on  two  sous' 
worth  of  fried  potatoes."  To  that,  however,  he  had 

*  Rond  de  f  rites,  a  penny  portion  of  fried  potatoes. 

3 


4  PEOPLE 

always  added  three  absinths,  and  some  half-pints  of 
wine:  white  before  dinner,  and  red  in  the  eve- 
ning. 

They  lived  in  the  rue  de  Belleville,  on  the  sixth 
floor  of  a  house  with  a  wagon  entrance  leading  to  a 
shed,  where  Mme.  Rondefrite  kept  her  barrow.  On 
Sundays  she  took  her  daughters  for  a  walk,  and,  being 
a  decent  woman,  she  roundly  abused  any  man  who 
tried  to  slip  her  his  card. 

The  girls  had  to  get  paying  work  when  they  were 
young,  and  they  did  artificial  flowers,  bead  wreaths, 
ready-made  clothing,  shoe  button-holes,  and  feather- 
curling,  one  after  the  other,  in  the  busy  season  of  each 
trade.  The  result  of  this  was  that  they  were  fairly 
good  in  most  lines,  but  experienced  workers  in 
none. 

Later  on,  Georgette  took  it  into  her  head  to  spe- 
cialize, and  she  became  a  mounter  of  artificial  flowers 
at  a  work-room  in  the  rue  Saint-Denis.  In  that  trade, 
when  there  are  new  models  to  duplicate,  the  fore- 
woman generally  chooses  the  nimblest  hands  for  the 
job, — in  other  words,  the  champions.  In  the  case  of 
women  who  work  at  home,  the  making-up  price  is 
determined  by  the  time  required.  Three  sous  is  paid 
for  making  a  spray  of  Burgundy  roses,  in  half  an 
hour.  Hence  the  normal  rate:  six  sous  an  hour.  The 
champion  starts  off  at  a  killing  pace,  to  please  the 
forewoman,  but  after  the  first  hour  she  is  done  for. 


THE  FRIED-POTATO  SISTERS  5 

'This  hustling  fixes  the  rate  of  pay.  A  piece-worker, 
working  twelve  hours  a  day,  takes  an  hour  to  make 
one  of  these  three-sou  sprays  of  roses. 

The  forewoman  made  Georgette  Rondefrite  enter 
the  lists,  for  her  fingers  were  very  nimble;  and  she 
stood  in  with  the  other  girls,  because  she  didn't  preju- 
dice the  forewoman  against  them. 

One  day  a  girl,  out  of  work,  came  to  the  work-room, 
grumbling  about  her  rent  and  her  sick  husband,  and 
offered  herself  at  ten  sous  less  a  day  for  the  work 
Georgette  was  doing.  She  was  engaged,  and  worked 
hard  in  order  to  show  her  gratitude  to  the  forewoman. 
Thus  the  hourly  pay  was  brought  down  to  four  sous, 
and  she  was  nicknamed  Vermin. 

That  evening  Georgette  was  all  ready  to  let  her 
have  it  from  the  shoulder.  Vermin  took  on  airs  and 
swept  past  her,  but  the  rest  began  to  hoot,  and  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"I'll  dry  your  tears  for  you!  "  cried  Georgette. 
"  Couldn't  you  have  landed  a  job  without  cutting 
down  the  money  like  that?  Why  didn't  you  say  so, 
if  you  were  in  trouble?  We  could  have  fixed  that  up 
for  you."  Then  she  finished  by  slapping  her  in  the 
face,  but  she  didn't  come  to  work  next  morning,  for, 
on  the  way  from  the  rue  Saint-Denis  to  Belleville,  she 
found  the  means  of  spending  a  little  while  without 
working,  in  the  person  of  M.  Lepiqueur,  forty  years 
old,  and  a  wholesale  dealer  in  sponges.  Twice  a  week 


6  PEOPLE 

she  helped  him  to  enjoy  life,  and  he  helped  her  to 
exist. 

She  kept  on  doing  flowers  and,  when  the  need  be- 
came urgent,  men.  A  well-to-do  bachelor,  whom  she 
met  on  the  same  corner,  cut  out  M.  Lepiqueur,  and 
offered  her  a  set  of  furniture  worth  four  hundred  and 
eighty  francs,  including  a  wardrobe  with  a  mirror 
set  in  the  door;  and  he  rented  her  a  room  in  the 
rue  des  Petites-Ecuries  at  twenty-five  francs  a 
month. 

"There's  plenty  of  girls  of  your  age  would  be 
mighty  glad  to  have  as  nice  a  layout,"  said  Mme. 
Rondefrite,  "  but  I  don't  approve  of  it!  When  I 
started  housekeeping  with  your  father,  I  wasn't 
thinkin'  only  of  pleasure.  If  I  was  to  box  your  ears 
I  couldn't  keep  you  at  home.  It's  time  you  were  mak- 
ing out  for  yourself,  but  it  wrings  my  heart  just  the 
same." 

Martha's  disapproval  of  Georgette's  irregular  inter- 
course was  marked  by  much  more  rudeness,  and  her 
insults  were  very  bitter,  for  she  was  jealous  of  her 
well-dressed  sister. 

Georgette,  without  any  ill-feeling,  contributed 
twenty-five  francs  a  month  towards  her  own  lunch; 
she  declared  that  the  fried  potatoes  to  be  had  in  the 
rue  Saint-Denis  had  no  taste  at  all  compared  with 
those  at  Belleville,  and  one  Saturday  night  she  brought 
one  of  her  friends  along  to  appreciate  them.  Martha 


THE  FRIED-POTATO  SISTERS  7 

was  working  at  some  garments  in  ticking, — forty  sous 
a  day, — and  she  had  a  very  cold  welcome  for  her 
sister's  friend,  who  was  equally  well-dressed. 
"  So  you  kick  up  your  heels  too,  do  you?  " 
"No.  I've  got  a  friend.  I  used  to  do  flowers  in 
the  summer  and  feathers  in  the  winter,  and  it  brought 
me  fifty  francs  a  month.  Fifteen  to  mama  for  my 
lunch;  fifteen  to  the  milkman  for  morning  and  eve- 
ning; twelve  for  my  room;  and  that  left  me  eight  to 
dress  myself,  and  to  spend  on  Sundays.  It's  no  fun 
to  see  your  friends  go  off  to  the  country,  when  you've 
got  to  stay  in  town  and  wander  about  like  a  lost  dog. 
I  can't  get  %long  without  some  kind  of  fun.  If  I 
couldn't  go  boating  in  summer  and  to  the  theatre  in 
winter,  I'd  die  of  boredom!  With  wages  like  that, 
you've  got  to  have  a  man,  if  you  want  any  peace  at  all. 
I've  found  one  who  gives  me  clothes  and  pays  my  rent. 
So  much  the  better  for  me." 

A  fluttering  of  wings  took  Georgette  to  the  window, 
where  she  found  the  canary  in  terror  at  some  cater- 
wauling on  the  next  roof.  She  brought  the  cage  into 
the  room,  and  covered  it  with  a  cloth,  whispering  kisses 
to  the  poor  little  thing.  Then  she  made  room  at  the 
window  for  her  friend,  and  they  gazed  down  at  the 
street  below  them.  Upon  the  walls  there  were  bril- 
liant squares  of  light,  cast  across  from  the  windows 
opposite,  through  which  passed  rapid  silhouettes  of 
the  people  on  the  pavements;  now  and  then  they  could 


8  PEOPLE 

see  the  slow-moving  outline  of  a  woman  of  the  streets 
in  search  of  business. 

Fruit  and  vegetables  were  being  offered  at  reduced 
prices  from  the  barrows,  and  these  cries  came  up  to 
the  sixth  floor,  as  though  distilled  from  the  confused 
murmur  of  the  street.  On  each  barrow  a  candle  could 
be  seen  burning  steadily,  sheltered  from  the  wind  by 
a  half-circle  of  stiff  paper.  The  shops  all  had  their 
shutters  up,  and  the  bars  blazed  forth  like  the  mouths 
of  great  furnaces  with  their  groups  of  stokers. 

Each  of  the  windows  in  the  opposite  wall  framed  a 
picture  of  people  with  elbows  on  the  sill;  behind  them, 
sitting  at  tables,  tired  women  were  hurrying  to  finish 
the  day's  sewing.  Circles,  tinted  according  to  the 
colour  of  the  lamp-shades,  were  thrown  upon  the  ceil- 
ings, and  showers  of  bright  light  fell  upon  the  fore- 
heads of  men,  desperately  calculating  how  to  pay  for 
their  eating,  sleeping,  and  loving. 

Above  the  roofs  of  the  houses  all  was  peaceful,  and 
the  strokes  of  a  clock  fell  upon  the  stillness,  like  pearls 
dropping  from  a  broken  necklace. 

After  dinner,  Mme.  Rondefrite  carried  some  sew- 
ing she  had  finished  back  to  the  rue  Reaumur,  with  a 
friend  who  had  come  to  help  her. 

"  Take  it  easy,"  said  Georgette,  "  they're  open  till 
ten  on  Saturdays." 

Martha  crossed  her  knees  beneath  the  piece  of  tick- 
ing she  was  sewing;  Georgette  was  playing  with  two 


THE  FRIED-POTATO  SISTERS  9 

spools  on  the  table,  and  when  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  pick  them  up,  you  could  see  a  gold  bracelet 
on  her  left  wrist. 

"  It's  just  like  the  work-room  here.  Always  some- 
one scowling,"  she  declared. 

Martha  burst  out  scornfully,  "Oh,  your  work- 
room! " 

She  stopped  her  sewing  to  look  at  the  bracelet,  and 
began  to  pick  the  dust  out  of  the  cracks  in  the  table 
with  her  needle.  Georgette  laughed,  showing  all  her 
well-polished  teeth,  and  Martha  threw  the  ticking  in 
her  face. 

The  stuff  unrolled  and  dragged  the  lamp  from  the 
table  to  the  floor,  where  it  broke, — fortunately  after 
it  had  gone  out.  The  girls  didn't  scream,  but  when 
they  had  gotten  their  breath  back,  they  were  in  oppo- 
site corners  of  the  dark  room,  now  filled  with  petro- 
leum fumes.  Georgette,  standing  tiptoe  in  her  twenty- 
five-franc  shoes,  held  a  lighted  candle  as  high  as  her 
arm  would  reach,  and  they  could  see  the  soaked  ticking 
and  the  broken  lamp. 

"  That's  a  good  day's  work!  You'll  have  to  pay  for 
the  ticking,  and  buy  another  lamp." 

Martha  wept  bitterly  at  the  thought  of  this  crushing 
responsibility,  and  then,  snuffling  up  her  tears,  she 
wailed,  "  I'm  going  to  drown  myself  ...  in  the 
canal  .  .  .  it's  nearer  than  the  Seine  and  not  so  many 
people.  You  won't  see  me  any  more!  I've  got  enough 


ia  PEOPLE 

of  this.  .  .  .  You  always  have  a  good  time  .  .  . 
go  to  dances  .  .  .  people  give  you  jewellery.  And  I 
sit  here  all  day  long  sewing  waistcoats!  I  won't  stand 
it  any  longer.  .  .  .  I'll  kill  myself.  ..." 

She  ran  to  the  window,  but  Georgette  was  just  as 
nimble  and  stronger.  She  got  the  better  of  her  and 
then  coaxed,  "  Stop  crying;  they'll  like  you  as  well  as 
me.  Wait  a  jiffy." 

The  bracelet  was  slipped  on  Martha's  wrist,  and  she 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  while  Georgette  did  up  her 
hair,  and  changed  combs  with  her. 

Their  mother,  weary  with  climbing  six  flights,  was 
just  outside  the  door,  and  as  she  entered,  Georgette 
cut  short  her  astonishment  at  the  smell  of  petroleum: 
"  I  upset  the  lamp,  but  I'll  get  a  prettier  one.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  take  Martha  along  with  me  to  dance 
to-night.  She  never  goes  out." 

And  Mme.  Rondefrite  didn't  struggle  against  Fate. 


NOUNOU  * 

M.  SAUVESTRE,  Mayor  of  Chaufours,  a  commune  of 
plaster-burners,  knocked  the  mud  from  his  big  shoes 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Town  Hall,  and  slowly  ascended 
the  steps  to  his  office.  On  its  whitened  walls,  four 
French  flags,  which  had  been  bought  at  the  Galeries 
Amienoises,  radiated  out  from  behind  the  pale  bust  of 
the  Republic. 

M.  Jules  Marnier,  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  ele- 
mentary schools,  who  was  the  Mayor's  deputy,  sat  at 
a  pine  table  wo/king  at  the  office  accounts. 

M.  Sauvestre  knocked  out  the  contents  of  his  pipe 
at  the  edge  of  the  table: 

"  Anything  new  from  that  Leloup  girl?  " 

M.  Marnier  supplied  the  required  details: 

"  She  gave  birth  to  a  daughter,  father  unknown,  at 
the  Amiens  Hospital  where  we  put  her.  She's  coming 
back  with  it  to-morrow." 

"  For  God's  sake,  let  her  stay  where  she  is!  We've 
got  enough  responsibility  now  with  her  paralysed 
mother,  let  alone  her  and  her  bastard.  It's  impossible! 
She'll  have  to  take  a  place  somewhere." 

The  next  day  the  Mayor  paid  a  visit  to  old  Mme. 

*  Nounou,  nurse. 

II 


12  PEOPLE 

Leloup's  hovel  at  the  edge  of  the  fields.  She  was 
paralysed  on  one  side,  and  she  lived  upon  crusts  that 
people  gave  her,  and  vegetables  stolen  with  her  left 
arm.  Her  daughter,  Celestine,  sat  on  a  three-legged 
stool,  smiling  at  her  infant  while  she  fed  it.  Only 
half-satisfied,  it  was  vigorously  chewing  at  her  abun- 
dant breast,  and  the  pain  caused  her  to  wink  her  eyes 
every  now  and  then,  but  there  was  physical  pleasure 
in  it. 

"  You'll  have  to  go  away  again.  There's  no  chance 
here  for  you  to  earn  the  money  to  keep  your  mother, 
and  that  little  mite  too.  You've  got  milk,  so  you'd 
better  go  to  Paris  and  be  a  wet-nurse.  Our  midwife 
here  knows  the  employment  agencies.  You'll  be  happy 
if  you  can  help  your  mother,  who  has  to  beg  for  her 
living." 

The  old  woman  lifted  her  untidy  head: 

"  If  me  old  man  hadn't  died  at  the  kilns,  I  wouldn't 
be  needin'  anybody's  help." 

"  You  ought  to  have  looked  after  your  girl;  why,  she 
doesn't  even  know  where  she  got  the  brat." 

"Sure  I  does.  It's  little  Firmin,  the  lime-burner, 
who's  a  soldier  at  Arras  now.  There  wasn't  nobody 
else."  She  looked  at  her  baby  and  began  to  cry.  "  I 
ain't  got  no  money  to  go  to  Paris!  " 

"  Don't  worry  about  that.  We'll  give  you  a  start, 
and  you  can  pay  it  back  out  of  your  first  month's 
wages." 


NOUNOU  13 

So  she  set  forth  with  her  offspring,  and  a  layette, 
which  the  Relief  Board  gave  her. 

The  Widow  Brousse,  who  kept  a  Registry  Office, 
was  well  recommended  by  the  midwives  of  the  Somme 
district,  and  she  met  Celestine  at  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
in  order  to  take  her  to  her  establishment  in  the  rue 
Censier.  It  comprised  a  reception  room  for  clients, 
with  windows  on  the  street,  and  a  large  room  with 
two  windows,  behind  the  court,  forthe  nurses.  There 
were  ten  beds  around  the  walls,  and  ten  of  them  could 
sleep  in  coolness  and  comfort,  or  twenty,  two  in  a  bed. 
A  circular  railing  guarded  the  stove,  and  attached  to  it 
by  means  of  rings  were  the  heads  of  ten  cradles  where 
ten  babies  could  be  put,  or  twenty,  foot  to  foot,  or 
side  by  side,  or  arranged  in  any  other  way  that  would 
best  utilize  the  heat.  The  stove  was  lit  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  again  at  one  in  the  morning. 

The  nurses  had  to  pay  ten  sous  a  day  for  their 
lodging,  and  thirty  for  their  food.  Celestine  didn't 
want  to  spend  thirty  sous  a  day  for  two  meals,  so  she 
arranged  her  own,  and  they  were  mostly  bread  and 
cheese.  Sometimes  her  comrades  took  her  to  a  char- 
itable society,  where  beef  and  lentils  were  to  be  had 
by  poor  women  who  were  nursing  their  babies. 

The  women  who  had  had  their  babies  in  Paris  knew 
all  the  places  where  one  could  obtain  food,  and  were 
up  to  all  the  dodges  for  getting  help  from  the  Relief 
Board.  Some  of  them  went  out  on  Sunday  afternoons, 


14  PEOPLE 

thereby  losing  the  opportunity  of  being  interviewed  at 
the  office  and  getting  placed,  but  the  street  offered 
excellent  chances  to  earn  the  money  to  keep  going 
until  the  following  Sunday. 

They  all  envied  Celestine  Leloup  for  her  fresh  com- 
plexion. 

"I'd  be  a  rich  woman  if  I  had  a  head  like  you," 
said  one  of  them. 

During  the  week,  while  they  waited  drearily  for  the 
arrival  of  possible  clients,  the  women  played  cards 
near  the  cradles,  or  retailed  their  troubles,  or  plagued 
Anne-Marie  Anic,  a  bad-smelling  Breton,  who  only 
knew  three  French  words:  "  Hou  la  la!  "  Every  eve- 
ning she  wept  into  her  great  yellow  handkerchief, 
stained  with  tobacco-snuff. 

The  Widow  Brousse  welcomed  the  visitors  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  her  shiny  forehead,  with  its  bang 
of  black  oily  hair,  and  made  her  customary  remarks 
about  the  slimy  courtyard  and  the  two  sick-looking 
trees: 

"The  nurses  have  good  fresh  air  here;  they  can 
take  their  babies  out  there  into  the  garden." 

They  had  to  cross  it  in  all  weathers,  shielding,  as 
best  they  could,  these  infants  who  had  to  be  shown 
naked  to  fussy  clients,  in  order  to  prove  that  they 
were  healthy. 

After  others  had  proved  unsatisfactory,  Anne-Marie 
Anic,  Celestine  Leloup,  and  a  Parisian  who  had  at 


NOUNOU  15 

one  time  been  syphilitic,  presented  themselves  for  the 
consideration  of  twenty-five-year-old  Mme.  Barbieux, 
who  was  wearing  a  hat  with  an  enormous  array  of 
feathers  on  it. 

"  Oh,  le  le,  what  a  hat!  "  muttered  the  Parisian. 

"  Hou  la  la!  "  repeated  Anne-Marie  Anic. 

A  dumpy  little  midwife  accompanied  Mme.  Bar- 
bieux. She  asked  the  ages  of  the  babies,  and  mauled 
them  about  so  much  that  they  started  to  yell.  Mme. 
Barbieux  drew  away  from  Anne-Marie  Anic: 

"  Good  gracious!    How  dreadfully  she  smells!  " 

The  midwife  was  very  much  taken  by  the  fine,  blue- 
veined  skin  and  white  breasts  of  the  Parisian,  but 
I  Mme.  Barbieux  was  more  attracted  by^Celestine's  air 
I  of  youthful  innocence.  She  had  wanted  an  unmarried 
"mother,  who  could  be  had  for  less  money,  and  who 
would  be  unlikely  to  come  to  her  in  the  middle  of  her 
time,  saying  that  unless  she  had  higher  wages  she 
would  have  to  go  back  to  her  husband  who  needed 
her.  No  one  would  disturb  this  girl. 

The  midwife  verified  the  condition  of  her  teeth,  and 
I  tested  her  milk  on  a  piece  of  white  paper,  and  Celes- 
\  tine,  crying  over  her  sleeping  infant,  was  finally 
\  engaged. 

"  The  little  one  will  be  well  taken  care  of,"  the 
Widow  Brousse  assured  her,  "  you'll  only  have  to  pay 
twenty  sous  a  day,  and  the  woman  will  come  day  after 
to-morrow.  If  you  go  on  like  thiSj  your  milk  will 


16  PEOPLE 

stop.  And  if  that  happens,  don't  forget  that  I  can 
place  you  as  a  dry-nurse." 

In  the  carriage,  Mme.  Barbieux  comforted  this 
broken-hearted  little  mother,  whose  milk  now  belonged 
to  M.  Leon  Barbieux.  The  bottle  didn't  suit  him,  and 
he  yelled  from  morning  till  night.  But  as  soon  as  he 
was  placed  at  Celestine's  full  breast,  he  became  silent, 
and  the  end  of  his  meal  came  only  because  he  had 
fallen  asleep. 

Mme.  Piau,  from  Margon  (Sarthe),  came  two  days 
later  to  get  Marie  Leloup  from  the  Widow  Brousse, 
and  she  paid  Celestine  a  visit  in  Mme.  Barbieux's 
kitchen.  Seated  beneath  a  row  of  polished  casseroles, 
with  a  glass  of  warm  wine  beside  her,  she  put  her  big- 
veined  hands  on  her  knees,  turned  her  placid  face, 
with  its  two  piercing  eyes,  upon  Celestine,  and  began 
to  speak  slowly: 

"  Babies  .  .  .  it's  always  babies.  We  knows  a 
thing  or  two  about  'em.  .  .  .  There  ain't  no  better 
place  than  the  Sarthe.  I  never  had  one  die  on  me. 
That  Ruau  woman,  who  works  in  the  fields,  buried 
one  last  year;  and  the  same  thing  with  that  Malhoure 
girl.  With  me,  never!  The  air's  grand  at  my  place." 

"You're  going  to  give  mine  yer  own  milk,  ain't 
ye?  "  asked  Celestine. 

"  I've  got  enough  milk  for  two!  If  I  didn't  I'd  put 
mine  on  the  bottle.  Not  yours.  You  can  be  easy 
about  yer  little  one.  I  know  my  business,  all  right." 


NOUNOU  17 

"Of  course,"  joined  in  Mme.  Barbieux,  who  had 
entered  the  kitchen.  "  I  can  see  that  Mme.  Piau  is 
capable  of  taking  good  care  of  your  little  girl.  You 
needn't  be  anxious  at  all.  The  important  thing  is  not 
to  get  yourself  worked  up  over  it." 

Celestine  had  to  pay  Mme.  Piau  for  the  first  month 
in  advance:  thirty  francs;  then  there  were  fifteen 
francs  travelling  expenses,  and  an  office  fee  of  five 
francs,  making  in  all  fifty  francs  ten  centimes,  with 
the  stamp.  Mme.  Barbieux  gave  her  one  month's 
money  in  advance:  sixty  francs.  And  Mme.  Barbieux 
had  also  to  pay  the  Widow  Brousse  a  fee  of  seventy 
francs  for  getting  Celestine  for  her,  and  an  office 
charge  of  five  francs  as  well.  Also,  the  Widow 
Brousse  charged  Mme.  Piau  twenty  francs  for  getting 
her  the  job  of  looking  after  Marie  Leloup.  Thus  she 
cleared  a  hundred  francs  for  her  trouble  in  behalf  of 
Celestine  and  Marie  Leloup,  mother  and  daughter. 

Mme.  Barbieux  provided  Celestine  with  clean  linen 
and  a  cap  with  red  ribbons,  and  allowed  her  an  un- 
limited supply  of  expensive  food.  All  she  had  to  do 
was  to  push  M.  Leon  in  his  white  coach,  to  change 
him,  and  every  two  and  a  half  hours  to  place  the 
softened  point  of  one  of  her  breasts  between  his 
lips. 

She  sent  what  money  she  had  left  to  her  mother, 
and  was  filled  with  pride  at  seeing  her  charge  do  so 
well.  In  fact  she  found  life  extremely  pleasant.  She 


i8     •  PEOPLE 

adored  undressing  him,  while  he  kicked  about  on  her 
lap,  and  she  understood  perfectly  when  he  said,  "  Aee. 
Aee.  Que-que,"  that  he  enjoyed  wiggling  his  little 
bent  legs: 

"  Come  into  the  world  sittin',  didn't  ye,  my  lazy 
little  pet?  " 

"Ae.   Ae." 

"  Look,  Madame,  he  follows  me  like  a  light."  She 
went  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  the  child's 
eyes  never  left  her. 

"  Me  too,"  cajoled  Mme.  Barbieux,  "  Loulou, 
Cutie!  "  M.  Leon  began  to  cry,  because  he  couldn't 
see  Nounou,  who  was  standing  behind  her  mistress. 

"  Nounou,  take  him  quickly  and  stop  his  crying;  it's 
easy  to  see  you  don't  love  him,"  said  Mme.  Barbieux 
angrily.  And  Nounou  laughed  and  laughed;  then  she 
began  to  think: 

"  And  my  own  little  Marie,  she  don't  know  no  one 
but  her  nurse."  Then  she  asked:  "She's  fed  at  the 
breast,  ain't  she,  Madame?  " 

"Certainly,  Nounou!  "  But  an  anonymous  letter 
came,  saying:  "...  your  child,  whom  you  left  with 
the  Piau  woman,  won't  live  long.  She's  beating  it 
until  the  blood  comes!  " 

Mistress  and  nurse  wept  together. 

"How  can  people  be  so  wicked!  "  moaned  Mme. 
Barbieux.  "If  you  worry  yourself  now,  Leon  will 
have  colic.  ." 


' 


NOUNOU  19 

M.  Barbieux  wrote  to  the  Mayor  of  Marion,  and 
the  reply  was: 

"  The  Leloup  child  is  doing  well.  ..." 

All  Nounou's  letters  were  intercepted,  but  one  day 
when  she  was  pushing  M.  Leon  in  his  coach,  a  woman, 
who  was  hurrying  past,  put  a  note  into  her  hand: 
"  My  sister  is  going  to  Paris,  and  this  is  a  good  chance 
to  tell  you  that  your  little  girl  is  at  death's  door.  That 
Piau  woman  ..." 

Celestine  ate  nothing  that  evening,  and  M.  and 
Mme.  Barbieux  were  beside  themselves: 

"But  your  milk  will  surely  stop!  "  And  that  is 
what  happened.  "My  poor  Leon!  A  change  of 
1^  nurses.  And  he  was  doing  so  well  with  this  one!  " 

Mme.  Barbieux  put  on  her  big  feathered  hat,  and 
hurried  around  to  the  Widow  Brousse,  who  let  her 
have  the  Parisian,  and  said  to  Celestine  when  she 
returned: 

"  You  are  a  queer  one!  The  girl  who's  taking  your 
place  won't  lose  her  milk  through  worrying  over  her 
baby.  I  won't  get  the  chance  to  send  a  third  to  that 
lady.  Don't  fret  yourself;  I'll  get  you  a  place  as  dry- 
nurse." 

But  a  week  later  she  told  her: 

"  You're  too  young.  You've  never  brought  up  an 
infant,  and  people  won't  trust  you,  and  I  can't  keep 
you  here  any  longer.  Next  week  you'll  have  to  send 
thirty  francs  to  Margon;  when  the  money  doesn't 


20  PEOPLE 

come  promptly,  those  Sarthe  people  take  babies  to 
the  Relief  Board.  .  .  . !  Don't  cry  like  that;  things 
always  come  out  all  right  in  this  life.  I'm  going  to 
place  you  as  maid-of-all-work.  I  know  of  a  big  house 
where  they're  looking  for  one.  You've  got  a  pretty 
face,  and  they  like  that.  You'll  get  tips  as  big  as  you 
are  yourself." 

The  following  day  the  Widow  Brousse  proposed 
Celestine  to  M.  Marius  Bissac,  a  wholesale  merchant, 
according  to  his  visiting  card.  He  was  a  big,  red- 
faced,  smooth-shaven  man,  benevolent  in  appearance 
and  deliberate  in  movement  and  speech.  He  gave  the 
Widow  Brousse  a  hundred  francs. 

"  All  right.    Come  along,"  he  said. 

And  Celestine  set  forth  for  the  brothel. 


THE  SWEET  SMELLER 

IN  1870,  Eugene  Cauchoit,  nicknamed  the  Sweet 
Smeller,  was  living  in  the  rue  des  Couronnes,  in  a 
house  that  contained  sixty-three  families.  He  was  a 
leather-dresser  and  the  smell  of  his  working  clothes, — 
no  worse,  perhaps,  than  that  of  the  staircase  he 
climbed  so  often, — had  brought  him  this  worthy  desig- 
nation. He  wasn't  at  all  a  bad  sort. 

During  the  Siege,  the  Sweet  Smeller  had  no  job,  and 
began  by  being  delighted  to  earn  thirty  sous  a  day  in 
the  national  guard,  but  he  soon  became  obsessed  by 
the  fear  of  stopping  a  bullet  by  the  wall  of  Pere- 
Lachaise.  Old  Moreau,  one  of  his  neighbours,  was 
also  in  the  national  guard,  and  he  had  no  job  either, 
for  his  trade  was  cleaning  out  cesspools,  and,  as  he 
said,  "  Those  places  don't  fill  up  very  fast,  while  the 
siege  is  on." 

Out  of  those  sixty-three  families  who  lived  in  the 
house  in  the  rue  des  Couronnes,  only  three  people 
escaped  the  bullets  of  the  Versailles  people:  two  old 
women  who  were  wounded,  and  Eugene  Jr.,  the  Sweet 
Smeller's  youngest  child. 

The  sombre  glory  of  the  riot  mounted  guard,  gnaw- 
ing its  fists  over  the  heroes  slaughtered  for  the  God 
of  their  kind:  Revolution. 

21 


22  PEOPLE 

Life  resumed  its  usual  pace  again,  and  when  our 
martyr's  destitute  son  was  asked  by  his  cronies  to 
spend  a  sou,  he  always  said,  "  But  I  haven't  a 
pelaudl "  *  So  he  came  to  be  called  Pelaud  in  the 
neighbourhood  where  he  passed  his  dreary  childhood. 
His  only  pleasure  was  to  scream,  "  To  heM  with  the 
police!  "  And  never  did  enthusiasm  for  a  new  religion 
take  such  complete  possession  of  the  minds  of  its 
devotees  as  did  hatred  of  the  police  that  of  this  little 
savage.  But  he  never  got  into  any  trouble,  and  with 
the  help  of  some  neighbours  later  on  he  set  up  as  a 
lamp-maker:  hand-lamps  and  carriage-lamps.  And  he 
earned  from  forty  to  fifty  francs  a  week  when  he 
worked  reasonably  hard. 

About  this  time  he  met  Jeanne  Depuis,  who  earned 
five  francs  a  day  at  home,  making  sugar-candy  angels 
for  confectioners.  Once  Pelaud  cut  his  hand  working 
at  his  lamps,  and  Jeanne  bound  it  up  for  him,  while 
he  admired  the  army  of  angels  hanging  from  a  piece 
of  twisted  brass  wire.  The  little  candy  figures  trem- 
bled and  shook  with  the  nervous  skipping  about  of 
Simone,  Jeanne's  daughter  by  her  first  lover.  He  had 
been  locked  up  some  years  before;  not  enough  money, 
and  too  much  flourishing  of  knives.  He  imagined  him- 
self an  anarchist  and  his  motto  was:  "  Live  by  spong- 
ing, and  die  without  giving  a  damn!  " 

When  his  cut  had  been  attended  to,  gratitude  moved 

*  Pelaud,  slang  for  "SOIL" 


THE  SWEET  SMELLER  23 

the  lamp-maker  to  send  the  little  girl  out  for  a  litre 
of  white  wine,  and  while  she  was  gone  Jeanne  Depuis 
became  Mme.  Pelaud.  Their  illegitimate  union  was 
abundantly  blessed,  the  babies  were  brought  into  the 
world  with  rapidity  and  improvidence.  Simone  was 
now  old  enough  to  look  after  them,  while  her  mother 
kept  on  working  with  her  gum-dragon  paste  and  sugar- 
candy. 

The  sixth  little  Pelaud  died  unwillingly  for  Re- 
ligion, as  his  grandfather,  the  Sweet  Smeller,  had 
done  for  the  Revolution.  When  he  was  eight  days 
old  he  was  taken  to  be  baptized,  for  at  Sacre-Cceur 
twenty  francs  could  be  obtained  by  mothers  who  came 
promptly  to  this  damp  ceremony. 

Mme.  Pelaud,  being  terribly  hard  up,  accomplished 
a  quick  recovery  in  order  to  avail  herself  of  this  wind- 
fall. But,  in  the  street,  a  malicious  north  wind  pierced 
the  infant's  scanty  wrappings,  and  the  priest,  muffled 
to  the  eyes  against  the  icy  atmosphere  of  the  church, 
finished  him  off  by  pouring  a  little  too  much  cold  water 
over  his  head,  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost.  So  the  twenty  francs  had  to  pay  for  his 
funeral,  but  he  was  buried  a  Christian. 

Death  loves  to  retrace  its  steps;  simple-minded 
people  say,  "  It  never  rains  but  it  pours."  And  the 
truth  of  these  threadbare  words  was  borne  out,  for 
Pelaud  became  consumptive.  The  doctor  said,  "  Live 
in  the  country;  eat  raw  meat,  and  more  of  every- 


24  PEOPLE 

thing.  Breathe  plenty  of  good  air.  Good-after- 
noon." 

Pelaud  took  as  much  of  this  good  advice  as  his 
means  would  permit.  He  went  for  walks  in  the  eve- 
ning, after  eating  his  share  of  meat,  and  also  his  wife's, 
— she  had  discovered  the  advantages  of  vegetarianism. 
In  spite  of  this,  he  found  himself  unable  to  do  a 
full  day's  work,  lost  his  position,  and  had  to  make  out 
with  odd  jobs.  But  these  didn't  last  more  than  a  few 
hours,  because  the  moment  he  was  discovered  to  be 
too  ill  to  do  good  work  he  was  told  to  go. 

At  the  end  of  three  successive  quarters,  they  had  to 
move,  because  there  was  no  money  for  the  rent. 
Pelaud  became  irritable  beyond  endurance.  The 
chairs  got  wobbly,  and  the  cupboard, — which  no 
longer  contained  the  pile  of  crusts, — parted  company 
with  its  doors,  owing  to  the  repeated  visits  of  the  chil- 
dren, who  always  expected  to  find  something  there. 
The  doors  always  came  down  on  their  heads  with  a 
bang,  but  they  were  so  hungry  that  they  didn't  feel  it. 

Then  came  a  period  of  six  months  in  the  garret  of 
one  of  a  group  of  houses  containing  three  hundred 
and  eighteen  other  tenants,  in  the  Combat  quarter, 
where  their  rent  was  paid  by  a  charitable  society  com- 
posed of  benevolent  ladies  in  silks  and  satins.  The 
children  spent  hours  looking  down  through  the  deep 
gully  between  the  houses  at  the  people  coming  out  of 
the  work-rooms  to  climb  the  steep  ascent.  When  a 


THE  SWEET  SMELLER  25 

wagon  passed  up  the  street,  it  sounded  like  the  roll  of 
a  distant  drum.  Busses,  as  full  as  ambulance  wagons 
after  a  defeat,  cut  their  way  through  the  swarming 
humanity. 

The  crowd  thickened  at  the  steepest  places,  and 
there  was  as  much  elbowing  and  jostling  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  as  on  the  pavement.  When  the  time 
came  for  the  streetwalkers  to  take  up  their  positions, 
! — it  was  easy  to  distinguish  these  women  by  the  clean 
aprons  they  wore,  showing  no  sign  of  wear,  except  that 
the  pockets  were  pulled  out  of  shape  by  the  weight 
of  idle  hands, — the  Pelaud  children  went  down,  and,1 
out  into  the  street,  where  they  followed  four  municipal 
guards  in  tufted  shakos,  bound  for  the  theatre  to  per- 
form their  nightly  duties.  Then  they  stood  in  front 
of  a  butcher  shop,  blazing  with  light,  and  feasted  their 
eyes  upon  a  frieze  of  shining  hooks,  supporting  dead 
sheep  with  green  leaves  wired  to  their  tails. 

The  third  little  Pelaud  revealed  artistic  tendencies 
by  drawing  pictures  of  his  family  on  the  staircase 
walls,  with  a  piece  of  charcoal  stolen  from  the  shop 
where  Wines  and  Coal  were  sold.  The  doorkeeper 
expostulated,  saying  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad  if 
'only  one  corner  had  been  spoiled.  But  what  was  he 
to  do?  The  family  was  such  a  big  one!  As  it  was, 
he  had  to  huddle  his  figures  together  so  as  not  to 
leave  anyone  out,  and,  since  they  all  looked  alike,  he 
wrote  a  name  on  each  stomach. 


26  PEOPLE 

hThey  got  notice  to  clear  out,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
d  no  other  garret  was  to  be  found.  An  exhausted 
,,oman,  a  dying  man,  and  six  kids!  The  janitors  all 
said  in  self-defence,  "  Put  yourselves  in  the  proprietor's 
place."  And  since  no  proprietor  troubled  to  put  himself 
in  their  place,  the  Pelaud  furniture  was  put  out  into  the 
court  at  the  end  of  the  quarter.  But  when  this  fact  was 
discovered  by  the  three  hundred  and  eighteen  other 
tenants,  they  screamed  their  indignation  from  the  win- 
dows, and  M.  Balance,  the  representative  of  the  Cor- 
poration that  owned  the  property,  found  a  solution  for 
the  difficulty. 

His  wine-cellars  were  getting  mouldy, — they  were 
never  used,  because  his  tenants  went  to  the  seventy- 
five  retail  dealers  in  the  neighbourhood  for  their  liquor. 
Six  francs  a  month  bought  the  Pelauds  the  right  to 
live  "  in  a  cool  place  "  like  so  many  rich  man's  wine 
casks.  But  there  were  serious  drawbacks;  the  bud- 
ding artist  had  no  staircase  wall  upon  which  to  exer- 
cise his  talent,  and  the  others  were  deprived  of  the 
thrilling  occupation  of  gazing  down  into  the  street 
from  the  sixth  floor.  They  could  only  look  at  the  pass- 
ing feet,  through  the  little  ventilating  holes  along  the 
edge  of  the  pavement.  The  young  artist  considered 
that  this  descent  beneath  the  earth  was  a  punishment 
administered  by  God,  for  he  had  questioned  the  priest 
at  catechism:  "  God  is  everywhere:  in  Heaven,  on 
earth,  and  in  all  places."  "  Then  God  is  everywhere 


THE  SWEET  SMELLER  27 

at  our  house,  Father?  "  "  Yes,  my  child."  "  And  he's 
in  the  room  with  papa,  mama,  my  big  sister,  and 
little  Blanblan?"  "Yes,  my  child."  "And  in  the 
wine-cellar  too,  Father?  "  "  Yes,  my  child."  "  Oh 
hell!  Father.  We've  got  no  wine-cellar;  we  get  our 
wine  by  the  litre  from  the  wine-shop." 

And  now  God  did  come  to  the  wine-cellar;  Pelaud 
died  there.  The  undertakers  were  a  little  drunk  when 
they  came  to  get  him,  the  day  being  Monday,  and  they 
couldn't  quite  decide  whether  they  were  to  bury  him 
on  the  spot  or  to  take  him  out.  But  when  they  looked 
out  through  the  ventilating  holes  and /saw  neither  sky 
nor  green  grass,  they  knew  what  to  do. 

The  poor  woman  didn't  stay  weeping  at  Pere- 
Lachaise  for  very  long,  and  she  came  back  to  work 
for  her  brats,  who  were  crying  for  their  father,  and 
looking  for  crusts  of  bread. 

A  few  happy  weeks  followed,  though  she  almost 
killed  herself  with  work,  and  could  now  only  make 
three  francs  a  day, — in  her  younger  days  she  had 
always  earned  six.  Then  the  little  artist  died,  and  the 
doctor  told  her  it  was  because  they  lived  in  a  cellar. 
If  she  stayed  there,  she  would  lose  them  all,  for  they 
had  the  disease  that  had  carried  off  the  father. 

By  a  stroke  of  good  luck  she  found  another  garret, 
and  moved  there  at  once.  Simone  was  only  strong 
enough  to  look  after  the  kids;  she  blew  their  noses, 
washed  them,  made  them  kiss  and  make  up  after 


28  PEOPLE 

fighting,  and  tried  to  keep  them  from  thinking  too 
much  about  eating,  until  their  poor  mother,  who 
worked  eighteen  hours  a  day,  had  earned  the  price  of 
their  food. 

Mme.  Pelaud  lost  little  time  in  sleep.  The  mo- 
ment she  got  into  the  family  bed,  the  kids,  pushed 
together  by  her  presence,  began  to  wriggle  their  little 
bodies  violently,  in  order  to  enlarge  their  share  of  the 
mattress.  The  cover  was  pulled  hard  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  then  retained  by  putting  it  between  the  teeth, 
and  those  who  slept  with  their  mouths  open  had  to  do 
without  it.  Their  mother  could  scarcely  ever  settle 
down  to  a  good  sleep,  because  of  the  continuous  kick- 
ing and  flinging  about,  and  she  generally  got  up  and 
sat  on  a  chair,  where  she  thought  she  could  rest.  But 
as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  she  automatically  took  up 
her  work. 

She  was  really  no  more  than  an  animal;  for  her,  life 
meant  feeding  her  children.  And  this  would  be  the 
death  of  her.  She  had  no  other  Faith  or  Principles. 

Simone,  who  was  always  such  a  help  to  her,  became 
weaker  and  weaker,  and  finally  died.  And  then 
Mme.  Pelaud  understood  that  she  was  simply  work- 
ing to  feed  Death,  who  would  knock  them  all  down. 
She,  the  last,  would  complete  the  pile. 

But  their  cries  of  hunger  quickened  the  nimble 
fingers  that  moulded  and  coloured  sugar  angels  for 
weddings  and  banquets. 


MONSIEUR  ROBLED'S  THROAT 

THE  worthy  M.  Robled,  professor  of  mathematics,  had 
a  bad  cough.  It  was  an  effort  for  him  to  make  his 
wheezy  voice  heard,  and  this  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  being  angry.  He  wouldn't  see  a  doctor,  but  he  took 
a  cough  syrup  to  please  his  pupils.  He  refused  to 
make  any  concessions,  and  gave  his  lessons  in  a  voice 
which  was,  each  day,  more  laboured. 

"  Your  cough  still  hangs  on?  "  his  friends  asked 
him. 

He  was  a  stocky  little  man,  and  he  puffed  out  his 
broad  chest  to  reply:  "  It's  much  better." 

You  felt  that  he  was  really  screaming,  but  only  the 
remnant  of  his  voice  could  be  heard. 

His  friend,  M.  Grulois,  was  greeted  with  the  follow- 
ing information:  "He  is  at  the  Saint- Antoine  Hospi- 
tal. He  finally  consented  to  undergo  an  examination, 
and  they  find  that  he  probably  has  cancer  of  the 
throat." 

M.  Grulois,  a  young  man  with  pink  cheeks,  did  not 
try  to  discover  whether  his  vigorous  pace  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  hospital  was  the  result  of  delight  in  his 
excellent  health,  or  of  the  satisfaction  he  got  from 
being  a  faithful  friend. 

29 


30  PEOPLE 

A  nurse  directed  him:  "  The  first  ward,  and  turn 
to  the  right." 

The  healthy  appearance  of  this  appetizing  woman 
in  her  fresh  linen  blouse  pleased  him  greatly.  He 
opened  the  door  of  the  ward,  and  saw  heads  and  hands 
moving  in  the  white  bedclothes.  The  stare  of  many 
pairs  of  solemn  eyes  kept  him  standing  there  by  the 
door  of  the  bright  room.  Then  suddenly  his  attention 
was  monopolized  by  the  figure  of  a  woman,  who  was 
not  looking  at  him.  Some  cushions  enabled  her  to  sit 
up  in  her  bed,  so  thin  and  so  white  that  one  would 
have  thought  her  dead,  had  her  eyes  been  closed. 
She  was  looking  at  a  weman,  dressed  in  black,  who 
stood  beside  her.  The  nurse  stopped  for  a  second, 
and  spoke  to  the  dying  woman:  "  You  feel  a  little 
better?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  woman  in  black  looked 
at  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  but  you  do,  you  do!  "  replied  the  nurse,  and 
then  she  came  up  to  M.  Grulois. 

"  M.  Robled?  This  way."  And  she  pointed  to  a 
private  room,  near  the  door.  Before  going  in  M. 
Grulois  asked  about  the  dying  woman: 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  She  suffers  a  great  deal;  she's  got  a  little  of  every- 
thing. It  will  be  all  over  soon.  Yesterday  we  thought 
she  had  died,  and  they  called  in  her  sister." 

M.  Grulois  felt  subdued  and  rather  uneasy;   the 


MONSIEUR  ROBLED'S  THROAT  31 

atmosphere  of  this  room,  where  death  was  waiting, 
unnerved  him;  he  trembled,  and  his  eyes  grew 
large. 

"This  way,"  repeated  the  nurse.  She  opened  the 
door,  and  he  should  have  gone  in,  but  he  could  only 
take  one  step.  Sitting  on  a  chair  near  the  bed,  M. 
Robled  seemed,  owing  to  his  extreme  slenderness,  to 
have  grown  back  to  the  age  of  fourteen.  Beneath  a 
nose  which  had  doubled  in  length,  his  mouth  looked 
like  a  black  hole,  and  his  enormous  eyes  glowed  with 
fury  in  his  dried-up  face.  M.  Grulois  supposed  that 
his  enforced  inactivity  was  the  cause  of  this  anger. 

"  You  feel  a  little  better?  " 

M.  Robled  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  but  you  do,  you  do !  "  insisted  his  friend,  and 
he  realized  that  he  was  repeating  the  nurse's  words  to 
the  dying  woman. 

M.  Robled  stood  up:  his  back,  which  had  been  filled 
out  with  muscles,  now  fell  inwards  on  either  side  of 
his  spine.  His  clothes  had  become  enormous  upon  his 
poor  thin  body,  and  he  looked  like  a  child  dressed  in 
its  father's  overcoat.  He  held  a  note-book  in  his  bony 
white-nailed  hands,  and  while  he  was  writing  in  it, 
M.  Grulois  noticed  the  tube  through  which  he 
was  given  his  food,  among  the  folds  of  his  neck 
scarf. 

M.  Robled  held  out  the  note-book,  in  which  was 
written: 


32  PEOPLE 

"  Bring  me  some  books." 

"  Certainly,"  said  M.  Grulois,  "  certainly.  I'll  bring 
enough  to  keep  you  going  for  two  weeks.  In  that 
time  you'll  be  cured." 

M.  Robled  glared  at  him.  "  Why,"  his  friend  won- 
dered, "is  he  so  irritated?  Is  it  my  insincerity? 
Does  he  know  he  is  done  for?  And  suppose  he  doesn't 
know  it?  " 

M.  Robled  shook  hands  with  him,  and  went  over  to 
open  the  door  in  spite  of  his  protests:  "  Please  don't 
bother.  Please!  " 

"  So  that's  it;  he's  deceiving  himself.  He's  not  out 
of  his  mind.  A  man  who  knows  he's  at  the  point  of 
death  doesn't  take  his  friends  to  the  door.  And  he 
shaved  this  morning  too.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
looked  at  me  as  if  he  thought  I  wasn't  honest  with 
him.  Did  he  know  it  was  cancer  last  month?  He 
waited  until  the  thing  almost  strangled  him  before  he 
believed  it  was  serious,  and  he  went  to  the  doctor  only 
when  he  was  no  longer  able  to  talk  or  eat.  Who  was 
he  making  fun  of,  with  that  syrup  of  his?  Does  he 
know  he's  a  dead  man?  Does  he  know  it?  " 

The  next  visit  would  be  very  difficult,  and  the  pros- 
pect terrified  M.  Grulois.  It  exasperated  him  not  to 
know  what  was  in  M.  Robled's  mind. 

"  Must  I  be  sincere,"  he  thought,  "  and  kill  him 
mentally;  or  must  I  feed  his  hopes  with  my  false- 
hoods? " 


MONSIEUR  ROBLED'S  THROAT  33 

After  four  days  he  came  again.  M.  Robled  had 
grown  thinner,  a  thing  that,  on  the  first  visit,  had 
seemed  impossible.  His  nose  had  sharpened  now  al- 
most to  a  point,  but  his  eyes  glowed  with  the  same 
force,  and  his  eyelids  were  dry.  M.  Grulois  put  the 
books,  some  biscuits,  and  a  bottle  of  wine  on  the 
table;  then  he  started  to  talk  to  his  friend  as  he 
would  have  done  before  his  illness — about  people  they 
both  knew  and  things  they  both  cared  for.  M.  Robled 
conversed  by  means  of  his  note-book,  and  once  his 
friend  was  unable  to  make  out  what  he  meant,  so  he 
mumbled  his  answer  with  an  assumed  air  of  under- 
standing. M.  Robled  tore  the  page  from  the  book, 
glaring  at  him  furiously,  and  M.  Grulois  thought  to 
himself: 

"He  suspects  nothing!  The  cause  of  his  irritation 
is  simple  enough.  He's  not  angry  with  me  because 
I'm  lying,  but  because  I  don't  understand  him.  It's 
annoying  and  humiliating  for  him."  So  he  started  to 
talk  cheerfully  of  the  things  M.  Robled  would  do  when 
in  good  health  again.  M.  Robled  stood  up,  his  over- 
powering gaze  still  fixed  upon  his  friend,  who  did 
not  dare  to  stop  talking.  Then  he  suddenly  turned  his 
back,  covered  his  face  with  both  hands,  and  buried  his 
head  in  the  bedclothes.  He  did  not  move  for  a  second 
or  two,  and  in  that  time  the  truth  struck  M.  Grulois 
/like  the  lash  of  a  whip:  the  sick  man  knew  that  he 
would  be  dead  in  a  few  days. 


34  PEOPLE 

M.  Robled  turned  around,  and  his  friend,  who  now 
maintained  a  dignified  silence,  looked  him  honestly  in 
the  eye,  shook  hands,  and  was  shown  again  to  the 
door. 

By  means  of  frequent  calls,  M.  Grulois  acquired 
great  satisfaction,  and  his  opinion  of  himself  increased 
with  each  visit,  but  his  intimacy  with  this  man,  who 
was  pledged  to  unrelenting  Death,  finally  enabled  him 
to  see  so  clearly  into  his  own  mind  that  he  came  to 
despise  himself. 

"  What  a  shameful  thing  it  is,"  he  thought,  "  for  me 
to  puff  myself  up  with  pride,  just  because  I'm  a  faith- 
ful friend  to  this  wretched  man.  Still,  if  I  bring  him 
any  pleasure,  I  don't  suppose  it  matters.  But  how 
can  I  do  this?  He's  only  a  bundle  of  suffering,  and 
what  good  can  I  do  him?  Oh,  the  supreme  cruelty 
that  retards  the  death  of  doomed  men!  There  is  no 
one  who  loves  this  man  enough  to  put  an  end  to  his 
frightful  agony.  And  where  could  kindness  be  found 
that  would  be  courageous  enough  to  accomplish  it? 
Perhaps  someone  would  do  it  if  he  were  confident  that 
the  action  would  be  considered  as  praiseworthy  as 
coming  faithfully  to  see  him." 

One  day  he  brought  a  revolver  with  him,  but  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  leave  it  on  the  bed  when  he 
went  away.  The  nurse  asked  him  not  to  tire  M. 
Robled  with  long  visits,  and  this  made  it  easier  to 
endure  the  annoyance  of  no  longer  knowing  what  to 


MONSIEUR  ROBLED'S  THROAT  35 

reply  to  the  scribbled  questions,  which  became  each 
day  more  difficult  to  read.  M.  Grulois  arrived  at  com- 
plete sincerity;  he  was  what  he  was:  a  man  watching 
another  man  die.  He  acted  from  pure,  unaffected 
kindness.  One  morning  he  went  to  see  his  friend  with- 
out even  feeling  glad  that  his  motives  were  absolutely 
unselfish.  It  was  his  final  purification. 

The  nurse  met  him  at  the  door  of  M.  Robled's 
room.  "  He  isn't  there  any  longer.  He  died  in  the 
night,  and  we  found  him  lying  stretched  out  very 
straight  on  his  bed.  He  wrote  his  will  on  a  leaf 
from  his  note-book;  his  body  goes  to  the  Medical 
School." 

"  Was  it  legible?  "  asked  M.  Grulois. 

"  Yes,  I  read  it." 

Some  of  M.  Robled's  other  friends  came,  and  they 
decided: 

"  We'll  go  to  his  autopsy,  as  though  it  were  a 
funeral."  And  they  went  the  next  morning  to  a  long, 
well-lighted  room  with  flowers  blooming  at  the  win- 
dows. M.  Robled's  bony  corpse  was  lying  naked  upon 
the  operating  table,  and  M.  Grulois  was  so  used  to 
regarding  him  as  a  corpse  before  his  death,  that  he 
now  appeared  to  him  to  be  alive,  chiefly  because  of 
the  determined  expression  upon  his  features.  A  young 
man  in  a  white  gown  and  rubber  gloves  made  a  long 
incision  at  the  throat,  probed  about,  and  lifted  out  the 
red  tumour,  which  let  fall  a  drop  of  blood  upon  M. 


36  PEOPLE 

Robled's  emaciated  chest.  The  size  of  this  parasite, 
containing  the  life  of  the  man  it  had  killed,  showed 
how  great  his  suffering  had  been.  In  his  gloved  hand 
the  dissector  held  up  this  powerful  thing  that  M. 
Robled  had  conquered. 


THE  TIGHT-WADS 

M.  VERDIER,  a  gentleman  of  independent  means,  who 
lived  at  Choisy-le-Roi,  was  taking  his  dog  for  a  walk 
in  the  public  gardens,  and,  seeing  her  scratching  the 
earth  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  he  snapped  his  whip:  "  Not 
here,  Diane;  the  town  is  rich  enough.  Save  that  for 
my  vegetables." 

Two  plumbers,  who  were  attending  to  the  piping  of 
the  fountain,  had  thrown  aside  a  little  wrought  iron 
cylinder.  M.  Verdier  picked  it  up,  and  threw  it  down 
one  of  the  paths:  "Go  get  it,  Diane!  "  Then  he 
spoke  to  the  workmen.  "  I  will  soon  be  wanting  some 
work  done  in  my  apartment  house;  and  for  goodness' 
sake  don't  mess  things  up  like  the  last  time!  It's 
always  like  that  when  people  work  in  houses  that  don't 
belong  to  them.  Something  always  happens  when  you 
have  to  have  work  done." 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  he  picked  up  the  cylinder, 
as  though  he  were  going  to  throw  it  again,  but  put  it 
in  his  pocket  and  took  it  home,  where  he  put  it  in  a 
box  with  other  odds  and  ends — old  clothes  and  little 
pieces  of  metal.  Then  he  went  to  Diane's  iron  food- 
bowl,  which  contained  a  white  bone,  and  scolded  the 
poor  thing,  who  was  now  lying  in  her  little  house  with 
her  wet  muzzle  on  the  sill:  "  You  lazy  brute!  Don't 

37 


38  PEOPLE 

you  know  yet  how  to  strip  a  bone?  "  For  there  was 
a  thin  coating  of  fat  still  upon  it. 

M.  Verdier  dug  his  nails  into  the  ash-bin — a  tiny 
one,  for  they  never  threw  much  away — to  make  sure 
there  were  no  cinders  that  could  be  used  over  again. 
Then  he  called  out: 

"Mme.  Verdier!  Put  the  tops  of  the  leeks  into 
Diane's  mush,"  to  which  she  replied  promptly  from 
her  kitchen,  which  was  hung  with  heavy  copper  uten- 
sils: 

"That  only  uses  more  coal,  and  when  they're 
cooked  they're  as  hard  as  pieces  of  wood  and  stick  in 
her  throat.  She  no  sooner  eats  them  than  up  they 
come  again,  so  what's  the  use?  " 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue,  a  huckster  began  to  cry 
his  wares.  M.  Verdier  opened  the  garden  gate,  and 
watched  the  bony  horse  slowly  approaching  him,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  "  Rabbit  skins!  Rabbit  skins!  " 
in  a  strong  Limousin  accent. 

While  he  waited,  M.  Verdier  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  scornful  contemplation  of  his  tenants,  who  always 
threw  away  their  potato-skins,  and  other  things  too 
which  were  much  more  precious,  to  judge  by  Diane's 
delighted  rummaging, — she  was  let  loose  at  this  profit- 
able moment, — in  the  feast  of  garbage.  She  brought 
back  a  bone  to  enjoy  at  her  leisure,  but  her  master 
took  it  from  her  and  put  it  in  his  box  of  odds  and 
ends. 


THE  TIGHT-WADS  39 

The  huckster  greeted  his  old  client,  and  stopped  his 
wagon,  which  had  rabbit  skins,  with  the  hair  brushed 
the  wrong  way,  hanging  from  the  lantern  brackets. 
He  lifted  out  the  filthy  contents  of  the  box  with  his 
greasy  hands,  and  made  his  offer: 

"  Three  sous." 

M.  Verdier  sorted  over  the  objects.  "The  bone's 
the  cheapest  thing  there,  and  it's  worth  a  sou.  You 
want  too  much.  There  are  plenty  of  other  buyers. 
Four  sous." 

Rabbit  Skin  wanted  to  split  the  difference.  "  Three 
and  a  half  sous.  I'll  even  up  with  you  for  the  half- 
sou  next  time  I  come." 

M.  Verdier  stopped  him  from  turning  the  box  up- 
side down,  and  made  him  lift  the  things  out.  "  Don't 
stir  them  up!  " 

The  greasy  sides  and  bottom  were  covered  with 
a  thick  layer  of  maggots,  which  he  used  for 
bait,  and  he  often  obliged  his  fellow  fishermen 
with  a  sou's  worth  or  two  when  they  had  run 
short  of  it. 

When  he  had  put  through  his  deal  with  Rabbit  Skin, 
M.  Verdier  shovelled  some  manure  around  a  lilac  bush, 
from  a  bucket  which  he  carried  with  him  when  he 
went  driving  in  his  little  carriage.  In  this  he  collected 
his  horse's  manure,  for  he  had  trained  Musketeer  so 
well  that  when  his  tail  went  up  he  came  to  a  halt, 
and  it  wasn't  necessary  to  get  out  and  run  back  along 


40  PEOPLE 

the  road.  He  said  to  himself,  "  If  the  roads  are  dirty, 
it's  not  my  fault." 

M.  Verdier  went  indoors  to  get  warm,  though  the 
movable  stove,  pushed  around  through  the  ground- 
floor  rooms  by  Mme.  Verdier,  contained  the  tiniest  of 
fires.  Then,  in  obedience  to  a  long-established  habit, 
he  lay  down  upon  his  bed  for  a  moment,  with  all  his 
clothes  on,  for  a  chat  with  his  wife.  She  was  fifty 
years  old,  and  so  thin  that  she  seemed  like  the  cord 
attached  to  her  little  round  balloon  of  a  husband.  He 
mentioned  a  leakage: 

"  The  tap  in  the  kitchen  is  dropping,  and  it  shows 
on  the  metre.  A  sou  soon  goes  that  way.  If  you're 
careful  of  sous  you'll  never  be  poor.  At  the  beginning, 
Mme.  Verdier,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  to  be  a  sou 
richer  each  day." 

They  called  each  other  Monsieur  and  Madame,  be- 
cause their  business,  "  Wines  and  Liquors,  Wholesale 
and  Retail,"  had  obliged  them  to,  for  thirty  years,  and 
it  had  now  become  a  habit. 

M.  Verdier  was  good  at  making  people  drink,  and 
he  had  won  thousands  of  aperitives  and  half-pints  of 
wine  by  playing  Zanzi.  For  this  reason,  at  the  age 
of  fifty-two,  he  had  great  difficulty  in  walking,  and 
found  himself  the  father  of  a  twenty-five-year-old 
government  clerk,  who  earned  two  thousand  francs  a 
month,  and  who,  to  purge  his  system  of  the  alcoholic 
inheritance  which  had  left  him  with  no  hair  at  the 


THE  TIGHT-WADS  41 

age  of  twenty-five,  was  condemned  to  drinking  nothing 
but  mineral  water. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  some  changes  in  the  bath- 
room," announced  Mme.  Verdier.  She  made  use  of 
this  convenience  once  a  month  during  the  summer,  and 
in  the  winter  there  were  pots  of  geraniums  in  the  bath- 
tubs, the  watering  of  which  kept  the  enamel  from  for- 
getting what  water  felt  like. 

The  tenants  who  had  paid  their  rent  promptly  were 
offered  this  privilege,  "  Would  you  like  to  see  the  bath- 
room? " 

M.  Verdier,  thoroughly  warm  again,  began .  to  go 
over  the  weekly  accounts:  "  Rolls  .  .  .  three  sous. 
We  get  bread  by  the  loaf,  Mme.  Verdier,  and  what's 
the  use  in  spending  three  sous  when  there  are  loaves 
in  the  house?  You  don't  get  rich  by  making  money; 
the  thing  to  do  is  to  save  it,  every  sou !  If  the  tenants 
want  bread  to  take  with  them  when  they  go  out  walk- 
ing, give  them  some  off  the  loaf  at  four  sous  a  pound. 
Those  three  rolls  didn't  weigh  a  half-pound." 

Mme.  Verdier,  who  always  got  the  makings  of  a 
bread  pudding,  or  Diane's  mush,  from  the  table  scrap- 
ings and  left-over  crusts,  was,  however,  anxious  to  ex- 
cuse herself  further,  and  asked  her  husband's  advice 
about  another  economy.  "  I've  got  two  egg-shellg 
from  yesterday.  Haven't  you  anything  to  clean? 
I've  done  my  decanters,  and  I  hate  throwing  away* 
perfectly  good  egg-shells." 


42  PEOPLE 

M.  Verdier  was  ready  with  two  suggestions.  "  They 
can  be  used  to  keep  the  fire  in,  or  you  might  crush 
them  for  polishing  your  brasses.  That  would  save 
sand." 

The  bell  rang,  and  Diane  barked  loudly.  M.  Ver- 
dier looked  through  the  curtains,  and  saw  that  it  was 
M.  Mercerin.  "  Mme.  Verdier,  you'll  have  to  tell 
him  I'm  not  here.  I  know  what  he  wants,  and  I  won't 
go  on  the  Town  Council.  No  thank  you!  Look  at 
the  clothes  I'd  have  to  buy;  and  after  the  meetings 
each  member  has  to  stand  for  a  round  of  drinks.  And 
there  are  collections  for  the  poor.  You've  got  to  count 
on  making  a  big  hole  in  a  hundred-franc  note  every 
year.  I  pay  my  taxes;  why  don't  they  leave  me 
alone?  " 

M.  Jules  Verdier  arrived  by  the  twelve-seven  train, 
and  a  smile  spread  over  his  puffy  face  at  the  thought 
of  anyone  giving  time  and  money  to  the  Town 
Council.  He  had  more  serious  matters  to  talk 
about: 

"I  saw  my  boss  to-day,  and  I'm  going  to  have  a 
raise  at  the  end  of  the  year;  probably  a  hundred  and 
fifty  francs." 

His  round  face, — as  expressive  as  a  piece  of  blank 
paper,  three  holes  in  a  ball, — proclaimed  the  complete 
emptiness  of  his  head;  his  father  had  not  dared  to 
spend  the  money  for  his  education!  He  was  incapable 
of  doing  anything  except  under  orders,  but  he  had  in- 


THE  TIGHT-WADS  43 

herited  from  his  father  the  enjoyment  of  counting  the 
sous  he  saved. 

M.  Verdier  consulted  him  every  month  as  to  the 
investment  of  his  yearly  saving  of  eleven  thousand 
francs  out  of  an  income  of  fifteen  thousand. 

In  a  slow,  effeminate  voice  M.  Jules  told  him  the 
day's  quotations,  and  then  his  father  held  forth  a  little 
on  the  general  question  of  investment:  "  You  must 
never  lend  to  private  individuals,  even  to  the  most 
industrious,  for  they  are  likely  to  get  ill  from  over- 
work. If  you  want  your  money  to  be  safe,  put  it  in 
concerns  that  can't  blow  up,  like  the  Government,  or 
one  of  the  big  Banks.  If  God  wanted  me  to  lend  him 
money,  I'd  do  it,  but  not  to  men.  Buy  me  ninety 
francs  of  income  in  1919  Russian  Loan  4^  percents 
at  100.45." 

M.  Jules  added  it  up:  "  2009  francs." 


s 


T 


•' 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB 

ONE  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  M.  Prosper-Paul 
Mache,  the  well-known  author,  went  to  see  M.  Karl- 
Albert  George,  who  welcomed  him  with  apparent 
delight. 

"Hello,  Prosper-Paul!  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see 
you." 

He  took  the  outstretched  hand  in  both  of  his  own, 
as  though  to  warm  it,  and  smiled  affectionately.  His 
big  black  eyes  opened  wide  with  astonishment  at  the 
sight  of  his  friend,  and  the  welcoming  words  fell 
rapidly  and  distinctly  from  his  clean-shaven  lips. 

M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache  had  been  clean-shaven  two 
days  before,  and  he  was  bald,  except  for  a  wreath  qf 
long  hair  on  a  level  with  his  ears,  which  kept  his  coat 
collar  in  a  continual  state  of  filthiness.  One  would 
have  thought  that,  with  the  fortune  he  was  known  to 
possess,  he  could  have  afforded  a  higher  standard  of 
personal  appearance.  He  sat  in  the  proffered  chair 
like  a  hunting  dog,  for  his  back  was  tired.  Writing 
was  his  sole  occupation,  and  he  got  out  of  his  bed 
to  sit  down  in  his  chair.  Now  he  crossed  his  legs 
nervously,  and  grasped  his  right  foot  with  his  left 
hand,  then  he  changed  his  mind,  and  seized  hold  of 
his  left  one  with  his  right  hand. 

44 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB  45 

The  welcoming  smile  died  out  of  M.  Karl-Albert 
George's  face,  and  was  replaced  by  a  fresh  set  of 
wrinkles  upon  his  serious  brow.  He  brought  the  palm 
of  his  hand  down  upon  a  pile  of  manuscript,  and  said: 

"  I've  read  it,  and  in  my  opinion  you  have  given 
us  there  a  very  beautiful  thing.  I  was  greatly  moved 
by  it.  That  man  who,  when  his  son  reaches  the  age 
of  puberty,  fears  that  he  may  contract  some  disease, 
and  orders  him  to  indulge  in  sexual  intercourse  with 
his  mother,  so  that  her  splendid  health, — reproduced 
in  him, — may  maintain  his  purity  ...  ah,  the 
astounding  reality  of  those  four  acts  of  yours! 
Astounding!  And  those  amazing  scenes  between  that 
selfish  brute  of  a  son,  who  is  blind  to  everything  but 
his  own  personal  pleasure,  and  the  father,  who  has  the 
future  of  his  family  at  heart!  I  know  of  nothing  to 
compare  with  it  in  French  literature." 

A  man-servant  entered,  and  spoke  stiffly  from  the 
doorway: 

"  The  carpenter  you  sent  for  is  here,  sir." 

"Let  him  come  in  at  once,"  said  M.  Karl-Albert 
George  delightedly,  again  taking  one  of  his  friend's 
hands  between  both  of  his  own.  M.  Prosper-Paul 
stopped  smiling  and  looked  at  his  shoes. 

"  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  Prosper-Paul,  but  there's 
something  here  that  nearly  drives  me  mad.  The  shelf 
of  this  bookcase  is  loose.  Listen:  toe  .  .  .  toe. 
...  It  does  that  whenever  I  touch  it,  and  I  can't 


46  PEOPLE 

keep  my  hands  off  it.  It's  impossible  to  do  any 
work!  " 

He  seemed  to  be  suffering  agonies;  his  long  white 
fingers  clasped  and  unclasped,  and  he  put  his  feet 
alternately  one  on  top  of  the  other. 

A  tool-box  bumped  against  the  door,  and  the  car- 
penter waited,  at  the  edge  of  the  carpet,  for  someone 
to  tell  him  what  to  do,  devouring  the  rich  furnishings 
with  bright  mischievous  eyes.  His  black  hair  was  full 
of  little  curled  shavings,  and  he  was  undoubtedly  a 
real  wit.  One  felt  that  he  was  smiling  inwardly,  and 
he  pursed  his  lips  as  though  to  whistle. 

"  This  way,  my  friend,"  said  M.  Karl-Albert  George, 
and  he  placed  his  shiny  pink  finger  nails  upon  the  edge 
of  the  loose  board,  which  brought  on  another  attack 
of  nerves. 

"  It's  the  bracket  wants  straightening,"  announced 
the  carpenter,  "  or  mebbe  the  shelf's  warped.  I'll  see 
to  it."  He  set  his  tool-box  down  on  the  carpet,  and 
slowly  began  to  take  out  his  tools,  that  gleamed  as 
brightly  as  M.  Karl-Albert  George's  finger  nails. 

M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache  scratched  his  head,  and, 
finding  a  loose  piece  of  skin,  he  held  it  like  a  pinch 
of  snuff  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  close  to  his 
near-sighted  eyes,  and  examined  it  with  satisfaction. 

"  Let's  go  into  my  little  study,"  said  M.  Karl-Albert 
George,  collecting  some  pages  of  manuscript  from  the 
desk,  and  continuing  his  praises: 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB  47 

"  That  splendid  fourth  act,  where  the  father 
threatens  to  call  down  maledictions  upon  his  rebellious 
son,  is  so  full  of  emotion  that  ...  so  full  of 
emotion  ..."  He  made  up  for  the  recalcitrant 
phrase  by  a  resounding  emphasis  on  the  last  syllable, 
which  he  brought  forth  with  great  fervour,  raising  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  placing  one  hand  upon  his 
breast. 

M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache,  though  he  was  on  his  feet, 
still  sagged  appallingly.  His  knees  were  slightly  bent, 
and  his  spine  curved  languidly. 

"  However  .  .  . "  continued  M.  Karl-Albert 
George;  but  the  door  closed  upon  his  friend's  droop- 
ing figure,  and  nothing  more  could  be  heard. 

The  carpenter,  kneeling  beside  his  array  of  tools, 
took  up  his  plane,  which  was  at  the  right,  and  set  it 
down  again  on  the  left.  Then  he  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet,  tapped  the  books  on  the  shelf  gently,  and  spoke 
to  the  man-servant: 

"Them's  got  to  come  out!  " 

"  I'm  not  stopping  you  from  moving  them,  am  I?  " 
replied  M.  Jean,  who  had  thrown  himself  into  the 
chair  where  M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache  had  been  sitting. 
He  was  doing  his  finger  nails,  and  flicked  off  the  pieces 
that  fell  on  to  his  yellow  and  black  striped  waist- 
coat. 

"  I'd  like  to  put  me  feet  in  your  shoes,"  said  the 
workman.  "  I'm  a  carpenter,  and  does  me  work  by 


48  PEOPLE 

th'  hour."  With  great  care  he  took  six  books  from 
the  shelf,  and  threw  them  across  the  carpet. 

M.  Jean  shut  up  his  knife: 

"You  workmen  are  impossible!  There'd  have  to 
be  a  crying  need  before  I'd  have  one  in  any  house  of 
mine.  Books,  my  friend,  aren't  chunks  of  wood! 
They're  supposed  to  be  handled  carefully.  You've 
got  to  take  them  out  in  order,  so  that  they  can  be 
put  back  in  order.  Do  you  get  me?  In  order!  " 

"  That  ain't  nothin'  to  do  with  me.  I'm  a  car- 
penter." 

The  man-servant  felt  it  to  be  beneath  his  dignity  to 
insist,  so  he  began  to  remove  them  himself.  The 
carpenter  watched  him  for  a  moment;  then  he  said: 

"  I  don't  mind  helpin'  ye.  Your  job's  a  heavy  one, 
eh?  Lucky  guy,  to  be  able  to  set  on  somethin'  soft 
now  and  then.  When  do  ye  quit,  nights?  Is  he  bad- 
tempered,  yer  boss?  " 

M.  Jean  replied  by  making  a  face, — his  lips  were 
twisted  anyhow,  from  his  constant  habit  of  sneering, — 
and  thereby  reserved  his  opinion  of  M.  Karl-Albert 
George,  and  avoided  becoming  confidential  with  a 
social  inferior. 

"Oh,  the  bosses  we  fellas  has  to  work  for  is  all 
alike,"  declared  the  carpenter;  "ye've  got  to  want 
work  awful  bad  to  do  it.  Is  yours  the  one  was  sittin' 
where  you  are?  "  And  he  pointed  to  the  chair  M. 
Prosper-Paul  Mache  had  occupied. 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB  -49 

M.  Jean  shrugged  his  shoulders  scornfully  at  the 
idea  of  anyone  being  unable  to  distinguish  between  the 
master  of  the  house  and  a  visitor. 

"Ah,  then  it's  the  other,"  deduced  the  carpenter, 
"the  guy  that  was  sayin'  he  was  full  of  emotion" 
He  ended  the  word  with  the  same  resounding  em- 
phasis, and  struck  an  attitude  surprisingly  like  that  of 
M.  Jean's  master. 

The  man-servant  and  the  workman  took  their  time 
over  the  books,  transporting  them  by  a  chain  of  opera- 
tions from  the  shelf  to  the  carpet.  M.  Jean  stood  by 
the  bookcase,  and  the  carpenter  squatted  Turkish 
\  fashion  on  the  floor.  He  asked: 

"  What's  yer  boss  do?  " 

"Dramatic  critic,"  was  the  condescending  an- 
swer. 

"  What  the  hell  kind  of  a  job's  that?  " 

The  carpenter  had  to  answer  himself: 

"He's  an  actor,  what!  Perhaps  he  knows  a  butty 
o'  mine,  who  gits  thirty  sous  a  night  for  playin'  the 
titled  gentlemen  at  the  Porte  Saint-Martin." 

M.  Jean  again  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  this  time 
the  carpenter  was  angry: 

"  I  gives  ye  a  hand  'cause  ye're  tired,  and  now  I 
can't  get  a  word  out  o'  ye.  I  ask  ye  now  politely, 
what  the  hell  is  it  ye're  sayin'?  " 

"A  dramatic  critic,  my  friend,  is  a  person  who 
goes  to  see  plays,  and  says  what  he  thinks  of  them." 


50  PEOPLE 

The  workman  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and 
held  his  sides;  then  he  said  pleasantly: 

"Ever  get  yer  mouth  smashed?  Some  guy  ought 
to  do  it  fer  ye." 

"  You  came  here  to  fix  that  shelf,  didn't  you?  " 
sneered  M.  Jean,  and  the  left  corner  of  his  mouth 
curled  upwards.  He  held  out  a  book  to  the  workman 
impatiently. 

"  Gently,  me  boy,  gently.  We  ain't  doin'  time  here, 
and  I  ain't  the  man  to  split  a  gut  when  there's  no 
call  to.  Don't  I  got  to  stop  when  I  laughs?  Yer 
pullin'  me  leg;  goin'  to  theaiters  ain't  workin'.  A  guy 
'u'd  be  a  damn  fool  to  believe  that  kind  o'  bull." 

M.  Jean  turned  his  back,  and  wobbled  the  half- 
empty  shelf: 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  able  to  fix  that?  " 

"I  know  me  business;  there's  nobody  can  tell  me 
what  to  do.  I  done  jobs  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Antoine,  and  that's  why  they  calls  me  Bastille.  But 
me  real  name's  Martin,  Jules  Martin." 

They  continued  in  silence,  until  the  last  book  was 
laid  on  the  carpet.  Then  the  carpenter  got  up,  wob- 
bled the  shelf,  and  studied  it  from  every  angle. 

"  Have  you  got  much  to  do  to  it,"  asked  the  man- 
servant, "and  are  going  to  dirty  up  the  whole 
room?  " 

"  A  job  can  always  be  done  without  makin'  a  mess. 
There  ain't  goin'  to  be  a  single  shavin'  on  yer  damn 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB  51 

carpet.  Now  off  with  ye,  if  ye're  too  stuck  up  to  tell 
me  what  yer  boss's  job  is;  I've  got  work  to  do." 

He  lifted  the  shelf  to  the  floor,  and,  placing  his  knee 
upon  it,  took  up  his  plane.  M.  Jean  changed  his 
manner: 

"  Really,  I'm  not  joking.  It's  my  master's  business 
to  go  to  plays,  and  then  write  his  opinion  of  them. 
Here's  his  last  article."  He  opened  a  newspaper,  and 
read  aloud  in  a  patronizing  voice: 

" '  M.  Matulu's  play,  La  Femme  Triomphale,  is  a 
splendid  achievement.  Bravo!  Matulu!  The  third 
act  is  masterly;  there  is  no  conscious  striving  after  lit- 
erary perfection,  and  at  the  same  time  we  find  passion 
and  fury  depicted  there,  with  consummate  dramatic 
art.  .  .  . '  I  do  not  hold  my  master's  opinion  of  the 
third  act  of  La  Femme  Triomphale"  he  said.  "  The 
play  is  evidently  a  splendid  one.  However  ..." 

"And  he  gets  paid  money,"  demanded  Martin  in 
bewilderment,  "  fer  goin'  an'  settin'  in  a  theaiter?  " 

"He  makes  a  great  deal  of  money." 

M.  Jean  enjoyed  the  effect  he  was  making  with  his 
exaggerated  account  of  his  master's  wealth,  and  the 
carpenter  could  scarcely  contain  his  indignation: 

"  What  a  job  to  give  a  guy!  "  Then  he  replaced 
the  warped  shelf,  reversing  its  old  position,  so  that 
the  four  corners  rested  firmly  upon  the  brackets,  and 
began  to  collect  his  tools. 

"  Have  you  finished?  "  cried  M.  Jean,  incredulously, 


52  PEOPLE 

trying  in  vain  to  wobble  the  shelf.  "  I  guess  you  know 
your  business,"  he  added. 

Martin  puffed  out  his  chest: 

"I've  worked  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine,  and 
this  ain't  empty."  He  tapped  his  forehead  with  a  stiff 
forefinger. 

M.  Karl- Albert  George  emerged  from  his  study,  on 
his  way  to  the  door  with  M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache,  and 
he  darted  across  the  room  to  feel  the  shelf;  a  sigh 
of  relief  escaped  him  when  it  refused  to  wobble  under 
the  pressure  of  his  hand. 

"  Well  done,  my  friend,"  he  said  to  Martin,  "  very 
nicely  done!  "  And,  smiling  with  satisfaction,  he  fol- 
lowed M.  Prosper-Paul  Mache  out  of  the  room. 

Martin  leaned  back  against  the  bookcase  and  burst 
into  gales  of  laughter,  holding  his  sides  with  both 
hands,  and  opening  wide  his  great  big-toothed  mouth. 

"When  you're  done  spluttering  all  over  me,  you 
can  put  those  books  back  in  their  places,"  announced 
M.  Jean,  and  Martin's  laughter  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 
He  crossed  his  arms  before  replying: 

"Aw,  you  expect  too  much  of  a  fella.  Look,  I've 
been  hangin'  around  here  fer  two  hours,  and  my  boss'll 
be  expectin'  me  back.  You  ain't  the  only  folks  as 
needs  the  carpenter." 

He  strapped  his  tool-box  on  to  his  shoulder,  and, 
struggling  bravely  to  keep  back  a  fresh  torrent  of 
laughter,  he  repeated: 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SOFT  JOB  53 

"And  he  gets  paid  money  fer  that!  " 
His  cheeks  were  bulging  precariously  as  he  went 
lout,  and  M.  Jean  saw  him  flop  down  on  a  bench  by 
the  sidewalk,  where  he  gave  full  rein  to  his  merriment, 
and  wiped  his  eyes  on  his  coat  sleeve. 


GRACIEUSE 

GRACIEUSE  was  the  daughter  of  old  Mother  Courli, 
who  had  lived  for  the  last  fifteen  years  in  the  rue 
Rebeval.  Mother  Courli  was  well  aware  that  to 
wander  aimlessly  in  the  streets  spelled  ruin  for  little 
girls,  and  she  passed  this  knowledge  on  to  her  daugh- 
ter, whom  she  sent  to  learn  how  to  make  funeral 
wreaths. 

"  Don't  ever  stop  to  look  at  store  windows,  or  when 
someone  tries  to  talk  to  you.  Don't  slow  up  for  any- 
thing! "  So  Gracieuse  never  slowed  up,  and  she  made 
free  use  of  the  only  insult  she  knew,  "  Horrid  thing!  ", 
when  men  spoke  to  her  because  they  wanted  her  frag- 
rant young  body.  Her  skin  was  like  mother-of-pearl, 
and  seemed  transparent,  and  her  pretty  blue  eyes  were 
always  laughing. 

Her  father  had  been  pensioned  by  a  big  company, 
and  since  his  death  Mme.  Courli  received  half  the 
money.  Every  three  months,  she  went  through  the 
copper-handled  doors,  and  sat  down  for  an  hour  on  a 
cloth-covered  bench  in  front  of  a  barred  window. 
Then  she  thanked  a  speechless  cashier, — with  white 
hair  and  red  eyes, — for  her  hundred  francs. 

Gracieuse  was  soon  earning  twenty-five  sous  a  day, 

54 


GRACIEUSE  55 

and  she  liked  her  job,  for  she  could  steal  ribbon. 
When  she  went  to  deliver  a  straw  wheel  covered  with 
everlasting,  she  said  to  the  boy  who  carried  it  for  her, 
"  Roll  it.  It's  much  easier!  "  And  she  took  along  an 
extra  six  or  eight  inches  of  moire,  for  she  was  clever 
at  doing  bows  over  again. 

On  Sundays  she  set  forth  all  covered  with  funeral 
ribbons,  and  there  was  a  pink  cord  drawn  through  her 
dun-coloured  chignon,  that  shook  when  she  laughed 
her  little  birdlike  laugh.  The  wind  played  with  the 
tufts  of  hair  at  her  neck  that  were  too  short  to  be  held 
in  place  by  her  comb.  And  she  had  a  red  ribbon  tied 
round  her  neck.  Children  in  the  street  stroked  her 
white  belt,  and  untied  the  blue  ribbon  bows  at  her 
nimble  feet. 

In  the  spring  she  became  a  different  person.  Some- 
one tipped  her  a  franc  and  she  ate  fifteen  ices  at  the 
Place  de  la  Bastille  which  cost  her  fifteen  sous,  and 
then  went  up  the  July  Column  to  see  if  it  really 
moved  to  and  fro.  Her  mistress  was  cross  at  her 
for  being  late,  but  added,  "Well,  anyhow,  does  it 
move?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  When  I  got  there,  I  forgot  all 
about  it!  "  She  seemed  to  have  no  control  over  her 
feet,  and  always  wanted  to  run.  Her  mother  was  worn 
out  with  her  endless  fidgeting,  and  gave  up  walking 
arm  in  arm  with  her:  "If  you  don't  keep  still,  child, 
bad  luck'll  come  to  you!  " 


56  PEOPLE 

One  Sunday  at  the  Buttes-Chaumont,  delighted  with 
a  fresh  outfit  of  ribbon  bows,  she  was  cutting  capers 
around  a  bed  of  irises,  standing  proudly  behind  their 
guard  of  green  sabre  blades,  when  she  suddenly  no- 
ticed a  boy  of  sixteen  devouring  her  with  his  black 
eyes.  She  had  no  desire  to  run,  and  the  next  day 
he  met  her  again  on  her  way  to  the  work- 
room. 

"  Hello,  Mademoiselle  Claire!  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I'm  Gracieuse." 

"And  I'm  Paul  .    .    .  Andry." 

They  told  each  other  where  they  worked;  he,  in  a 
studio  where  scenery  was  painted.  That  was  his  ex- 
cuse for  wearing  an  enormous  necktie  and  bulging 
trousers,  and  for  allowing  his  beautiful  hair  to  grow 
'so  long. 

Gracieuse  adored  being  loved,  those  summer  eve- 
nings in  the  moonlight, — generally  fatal  to  girls  of 
fifteen, — and  she  found  the  longest  walks  she  could. 
What  weather!  Then  came  two  weeks  of  rain,  but  it 
was  too  late.  She  was  going  to  have  a  baby!  Her 
anxiety  was  unbounded.  In  two  months  there  would 
be  the  festival  of  Samt-Fargeau.  Would  she  be  able 
to  dance? 

"  Sure  thing,"  said  one  of  her  friends,  "  and  danc- 
ing'll  unload  you,  too!  "    Then  she  learned  of  other 
\  methods  besides  dancing. 
\      On  Sunday,  Paul  Andry  bought  five  sous'  worth  of 


GRACIEUSE  57 

absinth  and  mixed  it  with  half  a  litre  of  white  wine, 
and  he  took  Gracieuse  to  his  studio,  reeking  with  pipe- 
smoke,  where  they  could  be  alone.  He  made  her  sit 
by  the  cold  stove,  with  its  pipe  zigzagging  up  to  the 
ceiling,  and  he  held  the  bottle  to  her  lips.  She  drank 
it  all,  and  it  made  her  drunk,  and  sick  after  that. 
Then  she  began  to  cry,  for  at  the  bottom  of  her 
muddled  little  mind  there  was  always  that  fear  of 
missing  the  festival.  Paul  took  her  to  her  door,  and 
then  escaped. 

Mother  Courli  saw  what  the  trouble  was,  when 
she  put  her  -  to  bed,  and  was  heartbroken  by  the 
grievous  discovery.  Gracieuse  slept  for  twelve  solid 
hours,  and  then  woke  up  with  the  words:  "  I'm 
thirsty." 

"  You  don't  deserve  anything  but  water,"  said  her 
mother. 

This  produced  a  pouting  declaration:  "All  right, 
I'll  drown  myself!  "  And  she  went  off  to  the  caresses 
of  her  little  scene-painter;  but  it  took  her  three  days 
to  find  him. 

"  It's  all  your  fault,"  he  said  to  her.  "  You  left  me 
on  Sunday  without  making  a  date!  "  And  she  saw 
him  looking  over  her  head  at  other  girls. 
I  When  she  got  home,  her  mind  was  a  tangle  of  spite- 
fulness  and  humility.  She  missed  sitting  on  her 
mother's  knees  terribly.  But  Mme.  Courli  had  no 
more  smiles  for  her,  and  Gracieuse  was  in  despair. 


58  PEOPLE 

She  lost  four  pounds  in  two  weeks,  and  her  eyes  looked 
enormous  in  her  little  sunken  face. 

With  hands  clasped,  she  beseeched:  "  Mama,  talk 
to  me,  please!  If  you  don't,  I  swear  I'll  drown 
myself!  "  Then  they  wept  in  each  other's  arms. 

"If  he  was  a  man,"  complained  her  mother,  "he 
could  look  after  you.  But  he's  only  sixteen.  His 
people  won't  give  him  a  sou.  They  don't  earn  much, 
and  the  father's  drunk  all  the  time.  It'll  cost  you 
money  to  raise  that  kid!  " 

Paul  Andry  found  another  job,  in  a  wall-paper  fac- 
tory near  Bel-Air,  and  took  a  room  in  the  Twelfth 
Arrondissement. 

Gracieuse  was  unable  to  walk  that  far,  and  she 
asked  a  neighbour  to  lend  her  the  money  for  her  bus 
fare.  Some  friends  warned  her:  "  Throw  him  over. 
He's  going  with  a  feather-dresser  now  from  the 
Sentier." 

But  she  stuck  to  his  trail  and,  one  evening,  found 
him  straightening  his  tie  before  a  shirt-maker's  mirror 
in  the  rue  Saint-Denis.  She  had  been  running,  and 
her  soaking  underwear  got  cold  and  made  her  shiver. 
Chilled  to  the  bone  and  thoroughly  miserable,  she  told 
him,  "  I  know  perfectly  well  who  you're  waiting  for. 
You  haven't  any  feelings  at  all!  " 

Paul  wasn't  really  so  bad;  he  bought  her  some  of 
Father  Coupe  Toujours'  cake,  gave  her  ten  francs,  and 
saw  her  as  far  as  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  promis- 


GRACIEUSE  59 

ing  her  everything  she  wanted.    But  he  kept  looking 
at  his  watch. 

She  climbed  the  Faubourg  du  Temple  again,  with- 
out looking  where  she  was  going;  a  driver  had  to  stop 
his  bus  to  avoid  knocking  her  down,  and  swore  vio- 
lently at  her,  and  the  fear  of  getting  killed  made  her 
think  of  ending  her  life.  But  not  under  a  bus! 

She  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  canal,  and  watched 
the  people  passing;  everybody  looked  ugly  and  care- 
worn. She  had  been  happy  up  to  now,  and  for  her 
the  world  had  contained  nothing  but  happiness;  now 
there  was  only  sadness.  Her  despair  evoked  the 
memory  of  an  experience  of  her  childhood.  When  she 
was  only  five,  she  wanted  to  have  black  eyes,  and  her 
hands  had  to  be  held  to  stop  her  from  scratching  out 
her  pretty  blue  ones. 

She  wandered  along,  looking  for  a  good  place  to 
jump  from.  A  filthy  mass  of  sewerage  had  collected 
around  a  small  boat  moored  to  the  side  of  the  canal. 
Not  in  that!  .  .  . 

Opposite  the  Customs  the  water  pleased  her,  but 
too  many  people  were  passing.  She  was  afraid  to  kill 
herself,  but  she  longed  to  die,  and  wished  she  could 
shut  her  eyes  and  have  someone  push  her. 

To  have  to  hesitate  and  choose  the  right  place  pre- 
vented her  from  doing  anything;  quick  impulsive  ac- ' 
lion  was  the  only  kind  she  knew. 

And  suddenly  she  ran  home  to  Mother  Courli  to 


60  PEOPLE 

say,  "I  almost  drowned  myself!     It  wouldn't  have 
taken  much  more  ..." 

"  Cheer  up,  Dearie.    Ca  ira!  " 

And  Gracieuse  sang  her  mother's  hopeful  words: 

"  Ca  irat    Ca  irat  " 


\ 


V    V 


' 


H 

\ 

- 


MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  * 

MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  was  reading  the  written  no- 
tices pasted  under  the  little  arches  of  the  Porte  Saint- 
Denis,  where  the  old  stonework  was  practically  hidden 
beneath  a  garment  of  paper: 

106,  Faubourg  du  Temple 
Good  hands  required  for  forget-me-nots. 

238,  Rue  Reaumur 
Dubois  &  Cie.,  waist-makers. 

Big  Marcelle  laid  a  hand,  which  bore  two  rings, 
upon  Mademoiselle  Sourire's  shoulder,  "  What  about 
it?  "  She  was  filled  with  pity  for  herself  and  the 
other  women,  raised  up  on  the  toes  of  their  well-worn 
shoes,  searching  for  the  work  they  required.  Were 
there  going  to  be  many  steps  to  climb?  "When  a 
forewoman  has  all  the  help  she  wants,  she  don't  come 
and  pull  down  her  notice;  it  stays  until  it  gets  covered 
by  somebody  else's.  Ye've  got  to  come  early  and  see 
it  bein'  stuck  up,  and  then  go  off  right  away  to  the 
address.  I  used  to  do  that." 

*  Mademoiselle  Sourire,  "  Miss  Smile." 

61 


62  PEOPLE 

"  If  ye  wait  around  here,  ye're  bothered  to  death 
by  these  rotten  men.  They  know  us  girls  come  here 
because  we  ain't  got  no  work." 

Big  Marcelle  mentioned  one  of  the  advantages  of 
complaisance.  "  Anyhow,  you'd  get  somethin'  t'  eat!  " 
She  detached  this  predominant  truth:  "You've  got  to 
eat!  " 

Mademoiselle  Sourire  pushed  a  lock  of  her  black 
hair  back  into  its  place,  and  explained  how  she  made 
her  living:  "  It  'ud  be  terrible  to  get  took  up  by  these 
men.  It's  much  better  to  take  any  job  ye  find  here, 
whatever  it  is.  When  ye've  got  no  special  line,  ye've 
got  to  take  what  ye  can  get.  Yesterday  I  was  sewin' 
babies'  dresses.  To-day  I  didn't  get  no  more  of  them 
to  do,  but  I  don't  mind,  because  the  pay  was  only  six- 
teen sous  each,  and  only  three  rows  of  lace  around  the 
skirt,  and  neck,  and  cuffs.  Me  mother  does  shoes,  but 
it's  too  dirty  for  me.  Whenever  the  kids  come  any- 
where near  her,  they  get  black  all  over.  I've  made 
flowers,  but  the  boss  always  tries  to  fleece  ye.  They 
tell  ye  to  leave  samples  of  yer  work,  and  send  ye 
away  promisin'  to  send  ye  more  work,  but  nothin' 
ever  comes.  He  keeps  the  samples.  If  twelve  girls 
was  to  come  in  one  day  to  do  violets,  and  each  one 
done  a  dozen,  he  'ud  have  twelve  dozen  without  payin' 
a  sou.  A  month  ago  I  went  to  a  feather-dresser  in 
the  Passage  des  Petites-Ecuries,  and  she  made  me  get 
two  wings  and  mount  'em,  to  show  me  work.  I  asked 


MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  63 

her  if  they  was  all  right,  and  she  said,  '  Yes,  and  I'll 
send  ye  some  more  to  do.'  But  I  kept  me  two  wings 
and  said  I'd  bring  'em  back  when  I  finished  the  work 
she  was  goin'  to  send  me." 

Big  Marcelle  shrugged  her  shoulders  beneath  an  old 
feather  scarf: 

"  It  ain't  so  silly  for  us  to  call  ye  Sourire;  there's 
smiles  there  all  right.  Ye'd  be  a  pretty  brunette  if  ye 
didn't  frown  so  much  and  take  life  so  hard."  Then 
she  went  with  her  to  one  of  the  addresses  they  had 
taken  down.  They  entered,  and  stood  in  the  corner 
of  a  room  full  of  all  sorts  of  stuffs  and  materials. 
There  were  three  sewing-machines,  one  for  the  em- 
ployer, and  two  for  the  apprentices,  who  earned  five 
sous  a  day  at  hemming,  which  was  really  the  work 
of  a  regular  workwoman. 

They  were  offered  lingerie  at  two  sous  less  per  gar- 
ment than  they  would  have  received  from  the  shop, 
and  the  forewoman  scolded  Mademoiselle  Sourire  for 
frowning  and  pursing  up  her  lips. 

"  Leave  it  if  you  don't  like  it.  I  don't  like  people 
who  complain.  Who's  going  to  pay  for  the  shoe- 
leather  I  wear  out  going  to  your  rooms  if  you  don't 
bring  the  work  in  on  time?  And  how  about  the  cab 
to  get  it  and  take  it  back  to  the  shop?  You  save 
your  bus  fare  and  your  time  because  you  live  near  by; 
and  I  don't  keep  you  waiting.  Go  have  a  look  round, 
and  see  if  you  can  do  better  somewhere  else."  Then 


64  PEOPLE 

she  mentioned  another  possibility.  "  If  it  isn't  enough 
money,  you'll  have  no  trouble  to  earn  what  you  need. 
It  isn't  as  if  you  were  a  man,  and  could  only  work 
in  the  daytime.  You've  got  another  iron  in  the  fire; 
ask  your  friend  whether  she  doesn't  know  how  to 
use  it." 

When  they  were  outside,  Big  Marcelle  spoke  gently: 
"  Come  along  and  I'll  treat  ye  to  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Ye've  got  a  lovely  skin  and  a  good  figure,  and  if  ye 
ate  all  ye  wanted  every  day  in  the  week  ye'd  be  nice 
and  healthy  looking.  I  know  ye'd  rather  die  than 
have  a  man  hangin'  around,  but  your  mother  wouldn't 
have  ye  locked  up;  ye're  eighteen.  Remember  that 
little  burnisher?  When  she  was  twelve  and  a  half 
she  used  to  run  around  with  men,  instead  of  goin'  to 
the  work-school.  The  Sisters  came  to  talk  to  her  peo- 
ple, but  it  was  too  late.  They  wanted  to  put  her  in 
a  work-school  at  Versailles,  to  change  her  way  of 
livin',  but  it  wasn't  an  easy  thing  to  get  her  there. 
Her  big  brother  said  he'd  take  her  to  visit  the  Chateau, 
and  she  started  out,  happy  as  you  please,  in  her  pret- 
tiest dress.  But  when  she  found  herself  in  the 
waitin'-room  of  the  school,  she  turned  on  him,  callin' 
him  all  sorts  o'  bad  names,  screamin'  that  she'd  starve 
herself  if  he  left  her  there,  and  she  wouldn't  say 
good-bye.  But  one  of  the  Sisters,  all  in  white,  with 
eyes  as  clear  as  tumblers  of  water,  came  and  talked 
nicely  to  her,  and  ten  minutes  later  she  told  her 


MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  65 

brother  she  was  sorry,  and  kissed  him,  and  told  him 
to  give  her  mother  a  kiss,  too.  She's  back  again  now, 
but  she  goes  every  Sunday  to  Versailles  to  see  Sister 
Cecile.  When  she  has  no  money  to  buy  her  ticket, 
she  cries.  Once  she  walked  all  the  way,  and  the 
Sister  gave  her  another  pair  of  shoes  and  paid  her 
way  back  by  train." 

Big  Marcelle  felt  no  regrets  for  herself  while  telling 
her  friend  of  the  little  burnisher,  and  she  proceeded 
to  talk  about  the  necessaries  of  life:  "There's  got  to 
be  a  lot  of  women  in  Paris,  and  there's  plenty  who  go 
the  pace,  young  and  old:  them  that  walks  the  streets 
every  day,  and  them  that  does  it  only  on  Saturdays, 
because  their  jobs  don't  bring  them  a  livin'.  Any 
woman  can  find  one  or  two  men!  There's  always 
plenty  of  'em.  They  come  to  Paris  from  everywhere! 
And  there  are  women  in  the  houses  from  Belgium,  and 
Germany,  and  every  country." 

She  threw  off  her  final  estimate:  "  It's  a  rotten  hole, 
Paris!  "  as  she  might  have  said,  "It  rains  a  lot  in 
Paris."  Then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  Sisters: 
"  I  used  to  know  'em  too  at  the  school,  and  they 
liked  me.  When  I  was  little,  I  was  pretty,  and  I  al- 
ways tried  to  be  a  good  girl.  I  wasn't  never  like 
the  others,  only  goin'  there  to  complain,  and  make  fun 
of  the  Sisters.  I  liked  them  to  kiss  me,  but  now  they 
know  I  run  around  with  men,  and  they  never  speak 
to  me.  They  ought  to  know  a  woman  does  what  she 


66  PEOPLE 

can.  We  can't  all  be  Sisters."  And  she  went  on  to 
say  how  she  liked  going  to  church,  and  praying  and 
clasping  her  hands.  Then  she  began  to  be  concerned 
about  the  fate  of  Mademoiselle  Sourire: 

"  Ye'll  kill  yourself  if  ye  keep  on  working  like  this 
for  fifteen  sous  a  day!  "  and  she  added  authoritatively, 
"  If  I  was  your  mother  I'd  box  your  ears." 

Mademoiselle  Sourire  started  to  recount  her  trou- 
bles: "  The  worst  of  all  is  me  father.  When  I  finishes 
me  work  I  got  to  hide  it  with  the  people  next  door. 
If  he  sees  me  goin'  to  get  me  pay,  he  drinks  up  all 
his  money  right  off.  I  try  to  shame  him  because  he 
can't  support  us,  but  when  he's  drunk  he  says,  '  I 
could  if  I  wanted  to;  a  man  can  do  anything.  And 
he  doesn't  try  to  do  what's  impossible.'  And  I've  got 
to  understand  that.  When  he  ain't  so  drunk  he  slaps 
me  in  the  face.  And  I'm  in  specially  hard  luck  now; 
there's  a  rotten  forewoman  where  I  work:  she  ain't 
even  worth  scratchin'.  She  gives  a  little  more  than 
enough  lace  for  the  trimming  to  the  ones  she  likes,  but 
she  wouldn't  give  me  an  extra  centimetre.  Always 
just  the  allowance,  and  no  more.  I  ain't  goin'  back, 
because  I  hate  injustice,  but  I  guess  I'll  have  to  take 
it  on  again  soon." 

Was  she  crying? 

A  little  new  moon  was  climbing  the  sky,  growing 
brighter  as  the  daylight  faded;  it  seemed  as  tiny  as 
a  crescent  you'd  buy  at  the  baker's  for  a  sou,  and 


MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  67 

Big  Marcelle  longed  to  possess  it;  she  would  wear  it 
in  her  hair. 

It  was  almost  dinner  time,  and  the  rue  de  Belleville 
was  full  of  children  clasping  loaves  of  bread  as  tall 
as  they  were  themselves,  and  little  girls  with  twisted 
hair-ribbons,  carrying  litres  of  wine,  like  soldiers  pre- 
senting arms,  and  milk  bottles  containing  six  sous' 
worth  of  steaming  bouillon. 

Mademoiselle  Sourire  was  thinking  of  her  obliga- 
tions at  home:  "  If  me  mother's  been  shoemakin'  in- 
stead of  lightin'  the  fire,  the  kids'll  be  hungry,  and 
I  promised  'em  a  stick  of  nougat.  When  I  ain't  got 
money  or  work,  they  can't  understand  it.  They'll 
start  bawlin',  and  then  father'll  be  after  'em  with  a 
stick." 

"  Don't  worry,  Dearie,"  said  Big  Marcelle,  and  she 
gave  her  three  francs,  and  bought  ten  sous'  worth  of 
some  sticky  candy. 

Then  they  went  to  Mademoiselle  Sourire's  home,  a 
ground  floor  room  giving  on  to  the  court,  where  a 
woman  of  about  forty  was  hurrying  to  finish  the  shoe 
she  was  working  on.  Two  little  children  were  playing 
among  the  scattered  shoes,  between  a  washtub  and  a 
tall  cupboard  with  doors  as  thin  as  cigar-box  wood, 
which,  somehow,  was  the  family  bread-box. 

In  an  old  jar  that  had  once  contained  candy  two 
goldfish  were  nibbling  bread-crumbs.  The  surface  of 
the  water  trembled  with  a  vibration  that  shook  the 


68  PEOPLE 

windows  and  everything  in  the  room.  Mademoiselle 
Sourire  explained  what  this  was: 

"  There's  someone  with  eight  sewin'  machines  above 
us,  and  they're  goin'  the  whole  day  long.  The  ceiling 
comes  down  on  us  in  pieces,  but  I've  got  to  be  nice 
to  her  because  she  gives  me  work  sometimes.  She's 
on  to  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  Every  season  she 
gets  hold  of  a  model,  and  then  goes  around  to  all  the 
shops.  Last  year  she  found  a  little  girl's  summer 
dress,  and  placed  it  with  one  of  the  big  ones.  She 
started  makin'  in  November,  and  for  seven  months 
she  never  stopped;  she  gave  out  the  work  too,  but 
always  the  same  model.  The  only  change  was  in  the 
colour  of  the  stuff  and  the  kind  of  lace.  And  there 
was  some  Germans  who  bought  it  off  her  to  take 
home  with  'em." 

Big  Marcelle  took  the  little  boy  by  the  hand:  "  You 
ain't  forgotten  me,  little  Hustler?  " 

They  called  him  that  because  he  was  a  seven- 
months'  baby.  Beneath  a  stubborn  head  of  hair,  his 
solemn  little  face  was  smeared  with  shoe-blacking. 
His  mother  adored  him:  "  He  loves  to  bite  the  shoes 
like  a  little  dog.  Ye  can  see  the  marks  of  his  teeth. 
Look!  " 

Little  Christiane  showed  her  a  pipe,  with  a  piece 
of  cloth  wrapped  around  the  stem,  and  begged  a  kiss 
for  it,  her  youngest  child. 

Big  Marcelle  put  the  candy  on  the  table,  with  its 


MADEMOISELLE  SOURIRE  69 

edges  bent  down  by  the  weight  of  many  elbows,  and 
the  children  gazed  with  eyes  like  saucers  at  this  unex- 
pected delight.  Mademoiselle  Sourire  spoke  to  them 
gently,  and  the  deep  lines  in  her  poor  tired  face 
softened  a  little: 

"  They  ain't  used  to  things  like  this.  Well,  it's  for 
you!  Say  'Thank  you'  to  the  pretty  lady."  Then 
she  took  Big  Marcelle  out  again  into  the  passage. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  I  can  earn  a  few  crusts  with 
that  machine  of  mine;  it's  an  old  wreck  I  won  in  a 
lottery,  and  so  hard  to  run  that  it  almost  breaks  me 
legs.  Me  father  drinks  up  all  he  earns,  and  we're  left 
to  make  out  for  ourselves.  I  often  feel  like  chuckin' 
the  whole  thing,  and  I  would  if  it  wasn't  for  them 
kids.  Ain't  they  darlin's?  Ye'll  come  and  see  'em 
sometime,  when  I  get  a  chance  to  clean  them  up?  " 

Big  Marcelle  was  reproachful:  "Ye've  got  no 
feelin's  at  all!  If  ye  wasn't  so  damned  decent,  they'd 
always  be  happy.  Ye'll  have  bad  luck  if  ye  walk  such 
a  straight  line!  " 

Mademoiselle  Sourire  hung  her  head: 

"  I  know  it.  When  me  mother  was  sick,  I  had 
to  get  meat  twice  on  credit.  The  woman  next  door 
said,  '  No  work,  but  the  butcher  brings  the  meat  just 
the  same.'  As  if  I'd  gotten  it  that  way!  " 

Big  Marcelle  was  surprised.  "  And  the  little  feather- 
dresser  with  the  friend  that  used  to  come  every 
Sunday?  " 


70  PEOPLE 

Mademoiselle  Sourire  looked  at  her,  wide-eyed: 
"Oh!  No!  She  was  a  nice  little  thing!  Her 
friend  left  her  in  trouble,  and  she  couldn't  pay  the 
midwife  who  saw  her  through.  She  went  down  to  the 
river,  and  it  was  funny  nobody  noticin'  her,  because  it 
was  broad  daylight.  She'd  gone  so  thin  that  the 
water  hardly  went  plonj!  " 


THE  SEINE  RISES 

(January,  1910} 

IT  had  been  raining  for  a  week.  The  factory  hands 
at  Choisy-le-Roi  were  obliged  to  put  on  wet  shoes 
every  morning,  and  the  cobblers,  crouching  in  their 
little  stalls,  did  a  good  re-soling  business.  The  suc- 
cession of  sunless  days  made  everybody  bad-tempered. 

People  looked  out  the  first  thing  in  the  morning 
to  see  if  it  was  still  raining.  It  was  always  raining! 

M.  Gaston  Mecoeur,  a  clerk  living  in  the  Condoles 
quarter,  set  forth  from  his  little  house  in  the  avenue 
Pompadour,  frowning  and  pushing  his  umbrella  into 
a  head  wind.  He  was  going  to  the  station  to  catch 
his  regular  train,  the  seven-twenty-three,  which  got 
him  to  the  bank,  where  he  was  chief  clerk,  at  eight 
o'clock. 

He  stopped  on  the  bridge,  worried  by  the  height 
and  rapidity  of  the  yellow  water  passing  beneath  him; 
it  had  just  begun  to  wet  the  stacks  of  bricks  on  the 
river  bank,  which  was  low  at  this  point.  Then  a  gust 
of  wind  blew  the  rain  down  his  neck,  and  he  com- 
plained bitterly  to  M.  Lortieux,  who  went  by  the  same 
train,  his  train,  to  work  at  the  cravat  counter  in  the 
Galeries  Saint-Michel. 

71 


72  PEOPLE 

"  Yes,"  said  M.  Lortieux,  "  it  is  coming  down!  We 
didn't  think  the  Seine  would  overflow,  did  we?  But 
here  it  is.  Some  water!  Those  coal  stacks  will  soon 
be  in  the  soup,  and  it'll  be  tough  going  for  the  fellows 
who  have  empty  cellars,  believe  me!  " 

An  old  man  began  to  tell  what  he  remembered: 

"  In  '76  the  whole  quarter  was  under  water,  but  at 
that  time  the  avenue  Pompadour  was  only  a  country 
road.  Now  there  are  three  thousand  people  here!  If 
it  should  happen  again!  ..." 

Most  of  the  clerks  shrugged  their  shoulders,  be- 
cause in  their  modern  minds  there  was  no  room  for 
the  fear  of  impending  tragedy.  They  were  concerned 
with  things  of  regular  occurrence,  like  cravats  and 
figures. 

In  the  third-class  compartments,  separated  only  by 
the  backs  of  the  benches,  there  was  always  someone 
standing  at  the  door  watching  the  water,  which  came 
up  close  to  the  track  and  flooded  the  lilac  nurseries. 

A  young  man  was  reading  aloud  from  a  newspaper. 
His  two  friends  listened;  one,  however,  was  barely 
awake,  and  snored  a  little  when  he  breathed.  An  old 
clerk  from  the  post  office,  who  was  wearing  an 
academic  decoration,  became  vexed  at  the  unaccus- 
tomed noise,  and  lowered  his  paper  to  glower  in  silent 
rage  at  the  cause  of  his  annoyance. 

"...  Yesterday  morning  in  Paris  the  water 
reached  4.62  metres  at  the  Pont  des  Tournelles  and 


THE  SEINE  RISES  73 

5.76  metres  at  the  Pont-Royal.  During  the  day  the 
level  went  up  very  regularly  at  the  rate  of  eight  cen- 
timetres an  hour.  A  rise  of  at  least  a  metre  must  be 
expected  in  Paris  to-day,  probably  1.25  metres,  per- 
haps 1.50  metres" 

The  train  pulled  into  the  station,  and  from  all  the 
doors,  simultaneously  thrown  open,  the  suburbanites 
stepped  down  from  the  foot-board  to  the  platform  with 
the  agility  of  long  habit.  They  met  again  in  the  eve- 
ning, to  catch  the  seven-eleven,  with  their  collars 
darkened  by  a  day's  wear;  otherwise  they  looked  as 
fresh  as  in  the  morning,  since  their  work  was  clean 
and  sedentary.  There  were  only  a  few  factory 
hands  among  them,  for  in  order  to  live  in  the  sub- 
urbs it  was  essential  to  have  steady  jobs  the  year 
round. 

M.  Mecoeur,  M.  Lortieux,  and  two  of  their  friends, 
who  lived  in  Choisy,  played  cards  on  the  way  home, 
and  some  millinery  girls,  about  sixteen  years  old,  were 
retailing  work-room  gossip,  gesturing  rapidly  with 
their  wan  little  hands. 

On  the  Choisy  bridge,  some  people  leaned  over  the 
railing  to  watch  the  bridge  piers  cleaving  the  rushing 
water,  and  their  exclamations  agitated  the  passengers 
who  lived  in  the  Condoles  quarter. 

"The  town  crier  says  you  must  leave  your 
houses!  " 

M.  Mecoeur,  startled  by  this  extraordinary  injunc- 


74  PEOPLE 

tion,  delivered  himself:  "A  fat  chance!  Danger, 
hell!  " 

Five  hundred  metres  further  along,  the  water,  flow- 
ing over  the  lumber  yards  on  the  river  banks,  had 
advanced  as  far  as  the  Villeneuve  line.  Once  it  had 
passed  this  slight  ridge,  the  inundation  of  the  whole 
quarter  would  follow,  and  this  took  place  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  People  were  awakened  by 
the  noise  of  the  cascade  into  their  cellars,  and  they 
hurried  to  the  windows  to  call  to  their  neighbours.  It 
was  still  raining  persistently.  A  man  passed  down  the 
street,  running  through  the  water  with  slow,  awkward 
steps,  and  the  lights  that  began  to  shine  from  the 
windows  were  reflected  in  the  street. 

Panic  took  possession  of  those  who  were  unable  to 
escape;  the  mere  act  of  running  somewhere  would 
have  been  such  a  relief. 

At  about  three  o'clock,  two  men  came  down  the 
street  pushing  a  shallow  boat  with  a  gaff.  They 
passed  along  from  lamp  to  lamp,  where  the  water  was 
deepest.  A  clerk's  wife,  leaning  from  the  window  of 
her  house,  which  had  only  a  ground  floor,  recognized 
Joseph  Bois,  a  barrel-maker,  who  was  known  for  his 
strength  and  for  being  King  of  the  Choisy  Water 
Sports  for  the  last  two  years,  and  with  him  she  saw 
Charlet,  the  mover. 

In  a  doleful  voice  she  begged,  "  Come  get  us,  the 
water's  above  the  floor!  " 


THE  SEINE  RISES  75 

The  clerk  brought  out  an  armful  of  bedding,  walk- 
ing tiptoe,  so  as  to  keep  his  hairy  legs  as  much  out 
of  the  water  as  possible,  and  at  the  gutter  he  went  in 
up  to  his  knees.  Shaking  with  fear,  he  went  back 
for  another  load,  but  when  he  returned  Joseph  Bois 
had  to  tell  him,  "  She  won't  hold  any  more,  me  boy;1 
we'll  have  to  come  back." 

Then  M.  Jolimetz,  the  wood-merchant,  sent  his 
powerful  dray-horses  splashing  down  the  street,  with 
trucks  which  his  men  drove  up  close  to  the  houses 
where  conveyance  was  requested.  After  three  rounds 
they  came  back  empty;  the  daylight  had  reassured 
everybody,  the  people  stayed  where  they  were,  or 
simply  went  upstairs  to  their  neighbours  above.  The 
six  policemen  of  Choisy  built  a  big  bonfire  at  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  when  the  men  had  warmed 
themselves  they  said  it  was  only  a  wave. 

The  lamp-lighter,  who  came  to  turn  off  the  gas, 
leaned  upon  his  bamboo  stick,  to  watch  the  lamps 
gleaming  beyond  his  reach,  and  to  fret  because  he 
could  not  complete  his  round. 

At  five  o'clock  the  Mayor  arrived;  he  was  enveloped 
in  an  old  yellow  overcoat,  and  his  face  bore  an  ex- 
pression of  great  annoyance.  He  was  afraid  of  getting 
wet,  and  no  longer  felt  the  necessity  of  distinguishing 
himself,  since  he  had  been  a  knight  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  for  two  years. 

The  many  factory  hands  who  lived  in  the  flooded 


76  PEOPLE 

quarter  were  transported  to  their  work  by  means  of 
boats  and  trucks.  An  anxious  crockery  worker  asked: 
"  Who's  going  to  bring  food  to  the  women?  " 

The  Mayor  did  not  disclose  any  plan.  "They'll 
be  looked  after." 

As  soon  as  the  clerks  bound  for  the  city  were 
landed,  their  habitual  fear  of  missing  the  seven-twenty- 
three  sent  them  running  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
station.  But  it  was  thirty  minutes  late,  because  the 
softened  road-bed  had  made  slow  driving  necessary. 
The  result  was  that  the  passengers  for  the  next  one 
took  it  too,  and  they  all  had  to  stand  up  in  compart- 
ments already  filled  with  commuters  from  further  up 
the  line,  who  were  busily  telling  each  other  their 
night's  adventures.  One  young  fellow,  with  his  eyes 
shining  from  sleeplessness,  kept  repeating  in  a  tired 
voice:  "We've  been  rescuing  people  I  We've  been 
rescuing  ..." 

His  mouth  was  close  to  the  faces  around  him,  and 
his  breath,  heavy  with  cognac  and  coffee,  caused  peo- 
ple to  stand  as  far  away  from  him  as  they  could: 
"  That  ninny  of  a  fireman's  trumpeter  stood  just  out 
of  the  gravy,  and  blew  his  pretty  little  tune,  instead 
of  getting  into  it  and  helping  us  fellows." 

M.  Gaston  Mecoeur  was  asleep,  with  his  necktie  all 
crumpled,  next  to  a  woman  who  was  sympathizing 
with  the  parents  of  a  baby  with  measles.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  they  had  had  to  take  it  out,  wrapped 


THE  SEINE  RISES  77 

in  its  bedclothes:  "Such  a  cute  little  thing!  And 
getting  along  so  well,  too.  A  cold  on  top  of  measles 
will  be  the  end  of  it." 

Other  people,  oblivious  to  the  chattering,  were 
buried  in  illustrated  papers,  that  showed  photographs 
taken  at  the  worst  places.  At  the  Paris  stations,  where 
the  trains  were  either  late  or  did  not  run  at  all,  porters 
wandered  idly  up  and  down  the  platforms,  while  the 
station  masters  hurried  hither  and  thither,  in  their 
attempt  to  reinstate  the  tangled  schedule.  Commuters 
read,  with  dismay,  the  company's  notice,  saying  that 
it  was  absolutely  unable  to  guarantee  their  return  trip 
in  the  evening.  However,  the  evening  trains  did  run, 
but  at  a  snail's  pace.  The  water  flooded  the  Choisy 
station,  entirely  covering  the  tracks. 

At  noon  the  Condoles  people  were  famished,  and 
began  to  fire  off  guns  and  revolvers  to  announce  the 
fact.  The  Mayor  had  organized  no  assistance  for 
them,  and  the  hope  that  the  water  would  go  down  de- 
layed efficient  methods  of  feeding,  which  would  have 
been  rendered  indispensable  by  the  knowledge  that  the 
thing  was  going  to  last.  And  it  did  last.  The  police- 
men moved  their  bonfire  back  before  the  persistently 
advancing  water,  which  reflected  the  unlucky  houses. 
A  crowd  of  onlookers  obstructed  the  embarkation  of 
food  supplies. 

The  water's  edge  divided  people  into  two  classes: 
those  for  whom  the  flood  was  an  affliction,  and  those 


78  PEOPLE 

for  whom  it  was  a  sight  not  to  be  missed.  A  young 
lady  arrived  in  her  motor,  and  was  furious  at  being 
unable  to  take  a  good  photograph. 

Yarns  were  told  without  the  slightest  foundation, 
but  which  might  have  happened:  there  were  babies 
over  there  in  the  houses,  one  didn't  know  just  where, 
who  had  no  milk  and  no  fires  to  warm  them;  there 
were  people  who  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  day 
before. 

Three  men  lifted  an  old  man,  who  was  paralysed, 
from  a  boat  where  he  had  been  propped  up  in  an  old 
chair  by  two  dirty  cushions.  He  couldn't  move  his 
head,  and  he  rolled  his  eyes  piteously  in  order  to  find 
out  what  was  to  become  of  him.  M.  Courtois,  the 
commissary,  spoke  up  a  little  too  loudly:  "  I'll  take 
him  to  my  house."  Then  he  took  his  place  as  if  in 
a  procession,  in  front  of  the  chair  they  were  carrying. 

A  great  deal  of  hospitality,  without  such  fine  atti- 
tudes, was  offered  to  the  flood  victims  with  their 
bundles  of  clothes,  their  canaries,  and  their  wet 
cats. 

Dogs  came  running  to  the  water's  edge,  plunged  in, 
and  then  turned  back  to  bark  towards  their  inacces- 
sible homes. 

When  the  arrogant  hospitality  of  M.  Courtois  and 
his  like,  and  that  of  the  less  pretentious  people,  had 
been  made  use  of,  the  victims  found  at  their  dis- 
posal the  assistance  of  the  shop-keepers,  whose  busi- 


THE  SEINE  RISES  79 

ness  sense  prompted  them  to  take  this  means  of  add- 
ing to  their  reputation  with  the  public. 

The  Mayor  was  pleased  with  the  general  initiative, 
which  supplemented  his  own,  and  he  complimented  the 
community:  "  Not  a  victim  left  in  the  streets!  " 

"  It'll  be  all  very  well  for  a  few  days,"  said  M. 
Verdier,  an  old  miser.  "  At  this  moment  people  are 
a  little  blind.  They'll  regret  their  hospitality  later." 

The  Mayor  became  angry  at  this  anticipation  of  a 
return  to  egoism:  "  It'll  last  as  long  as  the  flood,  and 
the  flood  isn't  going  to  last." 

In  the  afternoon,  a  platoon  of  dragoons  arrived  and, 
having  dismounted,  took  up  their  positions  as  sentries 
at  the  water's  edge.  No  one  had  told  them  how  to 
make  themselves  useful,  and  they  had  had  hardly  any 
experience.  Notices  were  posted,  saying  that  the 
Seine  would  rise  forty  centimetres  during  the  night.  A 
bargeman  tied  a  piece  of  wire  around  one  of  the 
lamp-posts,  at  a  point  fifty  centimetres  above  the 
existing  level,  and  stuck  some  stakes  into  the  ground, 
at  the  edge  of  the  water,  to  verify  the  rise  there.  The 
time  for  optimistic  prophecies  had  passed;  people 
wanted  to  know  the  exact  facts. 

At  seven-thirty  that  evening,  the  clerks,  returned 
from  Paris,  wanted  boats  to  take  them  to  their  houses. 
M.  Mecoeur,  hoarse  from  too  much  talking  about  the 
flood,  was  completely  fagged  out,  and  wished  to  waste 
no  time  in  getting  to  bed.  Some  were  terrified  at  the 


8o  PEOPLE 

predicted  rise  and  hesitated;  the  sight  of  people  leav- 
ing the  quarter  unsettled  the  minds  of  those  who 
were  waiting  to  enter  it.  But  habit  was  stronger  than 
fear. 

A  truck  came  splashing  through  to  dry  land,  and 
the  dragoons  helped  out  four  women,  each  with  a 
baby.  The  onlookers  came  running  to  the  spot: 

"  How  old  is  he?  " 

"Ah,  it's  a  little  girl!  " 

"  Have  you  got  a  change  for  her?  " 

Little  blue  ribbons,  on  lace  caps,  moved  about,  at 
one  end  of  the  white  shawl  bundles.  Anxious,  but  not 
desperate,  these  victims  proceeded  towards  the  houses 
of  their  friends,  with  their  babies  held  warmly  in  a 
careful  embrace.  The  soldiers  collected  floating  pieces 
of  wood,  to  keep  the  fires  going.  Night  came  again, 
increasing  the  inertia  of  the  tired  and  soaking  men. 
M.  Mecoeur  succeeded  in  getting  himself  into  one  of 
the  boats,  just  ahead  of  a  workman  carrying  a  bottle 
of  milk  and  a  four-pound  loaf  of  bread.  He  jumped 
in  just  as  the  bargeman  pushed  off,  saying,  "  If  you 
want  food  you've  got  to  get  it  yourself  or  starve." 

"They've  sent  out  dragoons,"  said  the  bargeman, 
"  and  look  at  'em  there  standing  like  pickets.  What 
we  want  is  a  lot  of  young  fellows  who  know  how  to 
run  a  boat." 

The  flooded  streets  were  as  silent  as  an  empty 
church,  and  the  velvety  water  reflected  the  lamps  that 


THE  SEINE  RISES  81 

shone  from  the  windows.  No  gas  reached  the  houses, 
or  the  street  lamps,  for  the  mains  were  full  of  water. 
And  it  was  as  though  the  night  had  sternly  com- 
manded silence. 

"  This  is  my  door,"  said  M.  Mecoeur  in  a  low  voice, 
and  the  only  way  he  could  enter  it  was  by  means  of 
a  plank  laid  upon  two  weighted  barrels.  In  the  sec- 
ond-floor back  room  six  children  were  sleeping  on 
piles  of  bedclothes,  and  in  the  front  room  five  women 
were  telling  each  other  things  that  had  been  repeated 
many  times.  Mme.  Mecoeur  wept  at  the  arrival  of 
her  husband,  and  one  of  the  other  women,  with  the 
alert  suspicion  of  the  rest  of  her  sex,  remarked: 
"  You're  all  right  now,  because  you've  got  your  man." 

M.  Mecoeur  wanted  to  go  back  and  warn  the  others, 
who  were  doubtless  waiting  at  the  edge  of  the  water, 
and  he  went  to  the  window  to  watch  for  a  boat.  The 
silence  of  a  bottomless  abyss  was  upon  the  motionless 
waters.  It  was  strange  to  hear  no  sound  of  trains  or 
wagons,  and  the  stillness  was  almost  audible.  A  boat 
passed  behind  the  row  of  trees  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  and  M.  Mecoeur  called  out.  No  reply  came 
from  the  two  men  who  were  in  it;  they  were  speaking 
together  in  low  voices.  You  could  hear  the  splash  of 
their  gaffs,  as  they  glided  out  of  sight  into  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  houses. 

"  There's  somebody  at  Libercier's,"  said  one  of  the 
women.  "  I  see  a  light." 


82  PEOPLE 

One  of  her  companions  said  it  wasn't  possible. 
"  They're  with  his  wife's  people  at  Versailles!  "  Then 
the  truth  came  to  her.  "  It's  thieves  in  the  house, 
then!  " 

M.  Mecoeur  went  to  get  his  revolver,  and  the 
women  put  their  hands  to  their  ears  and  begged: 
"  Don't,  you'll  wake  the  kiddies."  Then  other  boats 
glided  past  in  the  direction  of  the  abandoned  houses. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the"  morning  M.  Mecoeur  went 
downstairs  to  see  if  the  water  had  gone  down.  It 
had  covered  two  and  a  half  more  steps,  and  the  plank 
by  which  he  had  entered  the  night  before  was  floating 
about  in  the  flooded  room.  The  women  were  filled 
with  horror  by  the  revelations  of  the  dawn.  Joseph 
Bois  came  by,  pushing  a  large  boat  with  four  people 
in  it,  and  M.  Mecoeur  got  in,  and  began  to  tell  about 
the  pirates  of  the  night  before. 

"  Oh,  they're  everywhere,"  said  Joseph  Bois,  "  and' 
the  first  one  I  catch  is  going  to  get  his  dome  smashed 
in  with  this  oar." 

The  daylight  brought  many  women,  who  had  been 
sleeping  in  safe  districts,  to  the  water's  edge  to  look 
at  their  abandoned  homes,  and  they  loudly  lamented 
thlTfact  that  the  water  had  arisen  about  eight  inches 
above  the  wire  tied  around  the  lamp-post  the  day 
before.  All  the  people  who  could  not  get  to  Paris 
had  collected  around  the  station,  where  the  tracks 
were  more  than  three  feet  under  water.  Everything 


THE  SEINE  RISES  83 

on  wheels  had  been  hitched  up,  and  the  trip  to  Paris 
cost  one  franc.  Some  set  out  on  bicycles,  in  spite  of 
the  muddy  roads,  and  one  heroic  person  proposed  to 
walk  the  eight  kilometres.  The  commuters,  accus- 
tomed to  fourteen  minutes  in  the  train,  declared: 
"  You're  daffy!  "  And  they  fixed  it  up  with  the  sta- 
tion master  to  let  them  take  one  of  the  circle  trains, 
leaving  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  which  would  get 
them  to  Paris  in  two  hours.  It  was  much  slower  than 
walking  time,  but  they  would  at  least  be  sitting  down. 

M.  Mecoeur,  and  a  good  many  other  clerks,  decided 
not  to  go  at  all,  for  they  hoped  this  would  be  their 
only  day  away  from  the  office.  The  next  day  no 
trains  ran  at  all.  Never  had  such  a  thing  happened 
before!  It  couldn't  last! 

The  newspapers  published  exact  accounts  of  what 
had  already  happened,  and  made  grave  predictions: 

"  Yesterday  the  main  sewer  of  Clichy  burst.  .  .  . 
The  Gare  Saint-Lazare  may  be  flooded  to-day,  and 
there  is  a  still  graver  possibility:  Crevices  have  been 
noticed  in  the  Auteuil  Viaduct,  and  it  is  feared  that 
this  structure  may  fall,  thus  forming  a  dangerous  bar- 
rier which  will  throw  the  Seine  back  upon  Paris." 

The  Mayor's  indecision  gave  way  rapidly  to  uncon- 
sidered  authority.  No  one  saw  him  now;  from  his 
office  came  an  order  for  the  immediate  evacuation  of 
the  Condoles  quarter.  The  Chief  of  Police  explained 
to  the  people  why  this  was  necessary: 


84  PEOPLE 

"  When  there  is  nobody  there,  there  won't  be  any 
theft.  No  admittance!  Anyone  trying  to  prowl 
around  there  in  a  boat,  as  sure  as  I'm  talking  to  ye, 
will  get  all  that's  coming  to  him." 

Boats,  manned  by  policemen,  called  at  every  door, 
and  the  order:  "  Everyone  out!  "  was  explained  to  the 
inhabitants  good-humouredly,  except  to  those  who 
made  a  fuss,  like  Charlet,  the  mover,  who  told  the 
policemen  to  run  along  and  mind  their  business.  The 
Chief  declared:  "  He  wants  to  stay  and  make  a  haul. 
Look  through  his  pockets." 

Thirty  sous  were  found,  and  some  bread-crumbs  and 
an  empty  cigarette  box.  "  You  didn't  search  me  yes- 
terday when  men  were  needed  to  help  the  victims," 
said  Charlet.  "  I  kept  my  boat  going  for  thirty-six 
hours  without  stopping.  ..."  Then  this  advice 
came  from  the  Chief: 

"Shut  your  mouth!  You've  only  got  to  do  the 
same  as  the  rest  of  'em." 

When  Charlet  was  landed,  he  took  off  his  cap  and 
addressed  his  exasperated  companions: 

"Look  at  me!  If  any  one  of  ye  can  say  I  ever 
stole  a  sou,  let  'im  say  it!  They  searched  me;  they 
kicked  me  out  of  my  house.  And  after  I've  been 
helpin'  people  for  two  days.  Look  me  over.  I'm 
Charlet  the  mover." 

He  turned  a  haggard  face  to  each  of  his  listeners; 


THE  SEINE  RISES  85 

for  the  last  forty-eight  hours  he  had  scarcely  eaten, 
washed,  or  slept. 

M.  Mecoeur  had  a  big  package  under  his  arm.  He 
wore  a  silk  handkerchief  around  his  neck  instead  of  a 
collar,  and  stated  his  objection  precisely.  "  The  water 
can  rise  fifteen  steps  before  reaching  us  on  the  second 
floor.  You  might  leave  us  in  peace.  ..." 

"There'll  be  room  for  everybody,"  replied  the 
Chief  roughly.  "  You'll  have  everything  you  want. 
Get  along  to  the  Convent  of  Thiais.  And  step  lively!  " 

Some  workers  from  a  charitable  society  were  mak- 
ing soup  for  the  women  and  children  who  flocked 
there.  The  men  and  a  few  women  stayed  to  watch 
the  slow  arrival  of  the  boats,  loaded  with  ejected 
families. 

When  Charlet  stopped  speaking,  a  navvy,  who  had 
been  listening  to  him  with  bent  head  and  broad  shoul- 
ders raised  to  the  level  of  his  ears,  denoting  deep 
thought,  delivered  himself: 

"When  you  ain't  good  enough  to  be  Mayor,  you 
don't  let  yourself  be  nominated.  This  is  all  his  fault. 
He  done  nothin'  to  help  these  folks.  And  now  he's 
fired  'em  out  of  their  houses." 

At  the  end  of  each  phrase,  he  turned  abruptly  away 
from  his  approving  auditors,  and  walked  off  a  little, 
with  his  hands  dug  into  the  pockets  of  his  voluminous 
corduroys;  then  after  four  steps  he  came  back  to 
begin  a  fresh  one. 


86  PEOPLE 

"  How  about  Ivry?  The  Mayor  there  was  into  the 
water  up  to  his  neck.  He  made  the  bridge  builders 
get  busy.  Here,  we  got  two  dozen  dragoons  who  can't 
do  nothin'  but  watch  the  water  risin'." 

M.  Mecoeur  also  held  forth  to  a  sympathetic  audi- 
ence: 

"What  an  administration!  A  hundred  and  fifty- 
eight  francs  in  taxes,  and  I  get  thrown  out  of  my 
house  by  the  police!  " 

He  voiced  the  usual  complaint  of  his  class;  from 
his  narrow  point  of  view,  it  was  enough  to  be  orderly 
and  industrious. 

People  started  to  tell  the  scandalous  things  they 
knew  about  the  Mayor. 

Some  members  of  the  Town  Council  were  complain- 
ing at  the  consolidation  of  all  the  relief  committees, 
according  to  the  crier's  announcement: 

"  The  clergy  have  put  it  over  on  us  this  time! 
Here  we  are,  forced  to  work  with  them,  if  I  may 
say  that  much  to  their  credit.  They'll  say  they  did 
it  all,  and  they'll  get  decorated." 

Before  noon  the  Mayor  walked  past  the  muttering 
populace  with  his  nose  in  the  air.  Ducq,  an  employee 
of  the  Gas  Company,  tried  to  engage  him  in  conver- 
sation: 

"  What's  it  to  you  if  I  stay  in  my  house?  And 
s'pose  I  want  to  croak  there?  I'm  a  free  man,  ain't 
I?  .  ." 


THE  SEINE  RISES  87 

The  Chief  of  Police  came  running  up,  puffing  with 
exhaustion,  and  took  Ducq  by  the  arms:  "  It's  you 
for  the  lock-up!  " 

Ducq  collapsed:  "  I'm  all  right.  I  ain't  savin'  any- 
thing." He  was  very  miserable,  because  for  two  years 
he  had  gotten  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and, 
from  then  until  seven,  when  he  went  off  to  his  work, 
he  had  built  the  walls  of  his  little  house,  brick  by 
brick,  on  a  piece  of  ground  that  had  cost  him  three 
francs  a  metre.  He  had  spent  the  savings  of  his  whole 
life  on  it,  and  now  it  was  gone.  He  was  forty-three, 
and  could  never  build  it  again. 

People  were  so  tired  and  wet  that  they  didn't  have 
the  strength  to  match  their  outraged  feelings  with  ac- 
tions. The  navvy  predicted  that  the  people  would 
avenge  themselves,  nevertheless: 

"  If  it  ain't  better  to-morrow,  we'll  break  things 
up.  There  won't  be  any  window  panes  in  the 
Mayor's  office!  No  more  toastin'  their  toes  for 
them." 

Famine  became  imminent.  Half  the  bakehouses 
were  flooded  and  produced  no  bread.  The  bakers 
who  could  still  carry  on  business  were  running  short 
of  flour. 

"  Come  on,  boys;  move  along,"  said  the  policemen; 
"  all  this  yelling  won't  make  the  water  go  down!  It's 
gone  up  twenty  centimetres  already  this  morning." 

Charlet  objected: 


88  PEOPLE 

"  It  ain't  true;  you're  only  sayin'  that  to  make  us 
think  you  done  right  to  put  us  out  of  our  houses." 

The  dismal  water  crept  resistlessly  towards  the 
older  part  of  the  quarter,  where  the  inhabitants  were 
not  quite  so  poor.  They  were  astonished  to  find  them- 
selves just  as  frightened  as  their  less  fortunate  neigh- 
bours, and  declared:  "  It's  the  end  of  the  world!  " 

A  freshly  posted  notice  read:  "The  Seine  will  rise 
eighty  centimetres  during  the  next  twenty-four  hours." 

M.  Mecoeur  no  longer  had  the  courage  to  be  a  rebel 
citizen.  He  discovered  that  he  was  only  a  poor  man 
at  the  mercy  of  the  eternal  Forces.  The  relentless 
swelling  of  the  river  showed  him  that  anything  was 
possible  in  life, — he  might  even  have  to  give  up  going 
to  the  Bank. 

The  old  fear  of  the  anger  of  God  sprang  up  in  the 
troubled  minds  of  the  women. 

The  water-line  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  navvy, 
Charlet,  and  Ducq,  and  they  drew  back  from  it, 
silently. 

At  last  they  knew  what  resignation  was. 


AT  THE  EXPRESS  WINDOW 

THE  draymen  pushed  forward  to  turn  in  their  way- 
bills: 

"  I'm  first!  " 

"That  ain't  true!  " 

M.  Lefevre,  whose  job  was  to  deliver  the  receipts, 
folded  his  hands,  like  a  parson  taking  a  nap,  and 
watched  the  handfuls  of  yellow  paper  fly  past,  fanning 
his  face: 

"  Keep  yer  line!  Then  you'll  know  who's  first,  and 
who's  last.  You  guys  is  like  a  swarm  o'  flies  on  a 
lump  o'  sugar.  Don't  muss  everything  up  like  that!  " 

The  men  nearest  the  window  grunted  their  replies, 
but  others  behind  them  put  their  complaints  into 
words: 

"  Every  time  we  has  to  wait  longer!  " 

"  I'll  get  me  horses  pinched,  waitin'  like  this!  And 
it  won't  be  the  first  time  either!  " 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  'em  in  with  you?  "  advised 
M.  Lefevre.  He  watched  these  noisy  people,  bristling 
with  gestures,  as  calmly  as  he  would  have  watched  a 
beautiful  sunset,  then  he  spoke  to  them  pleasantly: 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  boys  in  my  job:  166  francs 
66  centimes  a  month,  to  sit  here  and  get  sworn  at,  ten 

89 


go  PEOPLE 

hours  a  day.  When  you  fellas  gets  fed  up  with  yer 
job,  you  can  take  it  out  on  yer  horses.  I  ain't  got 
no  horse.  D'ye  get  me?  " 

A  drayman  from  one  of  the  big  stores,  who  was 
wearing  a  more  elegant  cap  than  the  employees  of  the 
Company,  refused  to  get  him: 

"Who  gives  a  god  damn  about  that?  We'll  buy 
you  a  drink,  only  get  busy!  " 

M.  Lefevre  felt  the  same  way  about  it: 

"  No  one  wants  to  more  than  me,  but  how  the  hell 
can  I  do  my  job  when  yer  throwin'  the  papers  in  my 
face?  My  nose  don't  need  blowin'.  Come  on.  Who's 
first?  You  don't  know.  Me  either.  Watch  yer 
hands!  "  He  let  the  window  fall  and  laughed  at  the 
uproar. 

His  young  assistant,  bending  over  some  writing  in 
the  corner  of  the  office,  timidly  watched  this  man  who 
was  capable  of  such  determination.  M.  Lefevre  skil- 
fully rolled  a  cigarette,  and  held  it  out  to  him: 
"Lick  it." 

The  young  man  ran  his  tongue  along  the  paper,  first 
to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left.  Then  M.  Lefevre 
demonstrated  his  method,  which  was  to  hold  his 
tongue  still,  and  pass  the  paper  along  it  with  one 
movement. 

"  You  slobber  too  much.  But  you  got  time  to  learn 
the  makin'  of  cigarettes  between  now  and  twenty-one 
years  of  workin'  like  me.  I  was  station  master  once, 


AT  THE  EXPRESS  WINDOW         t      91 

but  I  got  it  in  the  neck,  and  here  I  am  behind  this 
window.  Every  time  they  lower  my  pitch,  or  when- 
ever guys  like  those  out  there  want  to  beat  me  up, 
first  thing  I  do  is  light  a  cigarette.  Want  a  light. 
.  .  .  Don't  mention  it." 

"  What's  that,  rain?  "  He  heard  a  fresh  uproar 
outside. 

The  voice  of  one  of  the  draymen  provided  the 
explanation:  "The  Company'll  wipe  it  up.  If  I  gets 
out  o'  line,  I  loses  my  turn." 

M.  Lefevre  pacified  his  assistant: 

"  Keep  your  shirt  on;  they  ain't  goin'  to  do  it  in 
here.  I  used  to  get  angry  too,  but  now  it's  always 
me  for  the  easiest  way.  Sit  down!  " 

He  lifted  the  window:  "  Who's  first?  Oh,  you're  in 
line  now.  Good  work!  Way-bills,  please.  Acknowl- 
edged, are  they?  Thanks." 

He  put  his  cigarette  down  on  a  cross-section  of 
track,  which  he  had  for  a  paper-weight,  and  began  to 
write,  while  the  file  of  men  waited  in  silent  fury: 

"  Next."  A  noise  of  terrific  scuffling  came  from  the 
other  end  of  the  line. 

"  Get  back,  for  God's  sake!  " 

"  Ye  don't  pass  me!  " 

"  What  is  it,  the  horses?  "  asked  M.  Lefevre. 

A  man  was  struggling  to  get  to  the  window,  but  the 
draymen  mastered  him,  and  he  now  looked  as  though 
his  one  idea  was  to  pick  up  his  cap,  which  was  in  a 


92  PEOPLE 

puddle  on  the  floor,  and  get  out  of  the  place.  But 
M.  Lefevre,  curious  to  know  who  he  was,  asked: 

"  Explain  yourself,  please.    Something  to  send  off?  " 

The  man  put  his  hat  on  the  ledge  by  the  window, 
and  began  to  speak  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  but  with 
great  difficulty,  for  he  was  a  foreigner: 

"  It  is  what  a  friend  to  me,  he  send  off.  He  go  with 
my  furniture  and  much  my  money." 

M.  Lefevre  took  up  his  cigarette  again:  "  May  I 
smoke?  " 

The  man,  oblivious  of  everything  but  what  he  had 
to  say,  exclaimed: 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  I  must  to  stop  him  the  friend 
to  me!  " 

M.  Lefevre  tried  to  silence  the  draymen: 

"  Keep  quiet,  can't  you?  .  .  .1  ain't  yellin',  am 
I?  He  ain't  takin'  anybody's  turn,  he's  only  askin' 
a  question."  Then  he  answered  the  bewildered 
man: 

"  Nice  friends  you've  got!  It  ain't  the  Police  here, 
it's  the  Railroad.  If  you  ain't  got  nothing  to  send 
off,  then  what  the  hell  do  I  care  for  all  that  stuff  yer 
talkin'  about?  " 

The  draymen  roared:  "Put  'im  out!  " 

M.  Lefevre  congratulated  them: 

"Ye'll  get  credit  for  this.  .  .  .  Fire  'im  out. 
...  A  guy  comin'  in  and  mussin'  everything  up 
like  thatl  " 


AT  THE  EXPRESS  WINDOW  93 

There  was  complete  disorder  in  the  file,  but  the 
wrangling  began  all  over  again. 

"  My  turn." 

"  That's  a  damn  lie!  " 

"  I'll  get  busy  again  when  ye're  in  line,  not  before." 
And  behind  the  ground-glass  window,  which  was  thick 
enough  to  withstand  the  hammerings  of  angry  fists, 
M.  Lefevre  spoke  words  of  wisdom  to  his  assistant: 

"  The  Company  shoves  us  from  behind,  and  these 
fellas  comes  at  us  from  the  front.  To  hold  down  a 
job  like  this,  you  mustn't  have  any  guts  at  all.  Try 
to  stand  up  to  it,  and  you'll  bust  in  two.  Take  it 
easy  whatever  happens.  Those  guys  never  get  what 
we're  drivin'  at,  but  we  got  to  keep  on  learnin'  'em 
what  to  do.  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  sittin'  with 
a  new  cap  on  my  head,  behind  a  nice  window  with  lots 
of  brass  that  was  polished  every  mornin',  and  to  open 
it  just  to  say:"  (he  lifted  the  window)  ".  .  . !  " 

"  Eat  it!  "  replied  the  man  who  was  standing  there. 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT 

Ax  the  Chevalier  Restaurant  men  with  muddy  feet 
called  down  the  basement  windows:  "The  box!" 
Two  scullions,  with  dish-cloths  around  their  necks, 
appeared,  and  lifted  it  according  to  their  daily  habit 
on  to  the  wheel  of  the  garbage  wagon.  The  early 
risers  of  Paris  walked  briskly  down  the  boulevard,  for 
the  crispness  of  October  was  in  the  air;  they  were 
hurrying  to  get  to  their  jobs  at  seven  o'clock.  The 
valuable  leavings  from  the  restaurants  were  being  car- 
ried up  from  the  basements;  skimmings  and  greasy 
water,  worth  five  francs  a  barrel,  were  poured  into 
metal  containers  on  the  wagon  of  the  bone-dealer, 
whose  horse  was  rubbing  noses  with  the  placid  mare 
of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  These  nuns,  in  their 
black  robes  and  hoods  that  swelled  out  as  they  went 
rapidly  about  their  business,  received  crusts  of  bread, 
coffee  grounds,  and  the  little  bits  of  meat  left  on  the 
clients'  plates.  The  proprietor's  reputation  for  benev- 
olence was  further  enhanced  by  a  daily  queue  of  hun- 
gry souls,  amongst  whom  the  waiters  distributed 
scraps. 

They  waited  quietly  in  the  empty  restaurant,  with 

94 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT       95 

its  mirrors  and  white  cloths  laid  for  the  next  meal,  the 
remains  of  which  would  be  theirs.  A  woman,  weary 
with  carrying  her  baby,  stood  in  the  line,  and  her 
back  was  as  round  as  a  wet-nurse's  bosom. 

The  two  scullions  started  off  to  get  their  allowance 
of  white  wine,  as  cold  as  the  morning  itself,  but  they 
were  stopped  by  two  young  men,  who  laid  hands  on 
their  shoulders,  and  replied  to  the  friendly  good-morn- 
ings in  a  strong  Auvergne  accent: 

"  We're  flat  broke,  and  not  a  smell  of  a  job!  " 

The  two  scullions  got  out  drinks  for  the  two  jobless 
cooks.  The  humility  of  poverty  caused  these  men  to 
forget  the  difference  between  their  callings,  and  the 
cooks  were  glad  to  discuss  with  the  scullions  the  very 
absorbing  question  of  where  to  get  work.  They  com- 
plained of  the  great  number  of  unemployed,  and  of 
the  difficulty  of  getting  placed  after  returning  from 
summer  jobs: 

"  There's  a  lot  of  misery  in  the  winter  in  Paris." 

"  A  steady  job's  a  lot  better  than  workin'  by  the 
season,"  declared  one  of  the  scullions. 

Baugalois,  called  Steel-Shavings  because  of  his  curly 
hair,  made  some  reservations: 

"  By  the  year,  you  don't  have  to  worry,  but  the 
pay's  bad.  At  Maire's  the  chefs  get  two  hundred 
francs  a  month;  the  assistants,  seventy  to  eighty.  At 
Ledoyen's,  the  chefs  three  hundred;  the  assistants, 
ninety  to  a  hundred.  I'm  just  back  from  Trouville, 


96  PEOPLE 

assistant  sauce-maker,  two  hundred,  laundry  and  fare 
paid." 

Jandet  held  forth,  with  a  Gascon  accent: 

"  If  you  travel  you  learn  yer  job  better.  Ouvrard's 
sauce-makers,  now,  what  can  them  guys  turn  out? 
Filets  of  sole  with  mussels  and  shrimps:  the  dish  of 
the  house.  Got  to  keep  movin'  or  you'll  get  stale." 

The  two  scullions,  who  washed  dishes,  disapproved 
of  these  high-sounding  arguments: 

"  Ye're  always  splittin'  yer  guts,  if  you  work  by  the 
season.  You  don't  get  no  rest  at  all." 

Jandet  put  in  sarcastically: 

"And  I  s'pose  there  ain't  no  place  like  that  in 
Paris?  " 

The  oldest  of  the  scullions  informed  them: 

"  There's  two  jobs  goin'  here.  An  entremets-cook 
and  a  larder-man  near  scratched  each  other's  eyes  out 
yesterday.  I  guess  they've  got  the  sack  by  this 
time." 

Baugalois  and  Jandet  finished  their  wine,  and  hav- 
ing thanked  the  scullion  for  this  information,  they 
set  off  on  their  round  again.  Their  dragging  steps 
betrayed  the  fact  that  they  were  out  of  work,  and 
their  faces,  pale  from  constant  proximity  to  the  fire, 
distinguished  them  from  other  workmen  who  passed 
their  days  in  cool  work-rooms.  The  stream  of  busy 
people  flowed  past  them. 

A  slow  procession  of  fruit-carts  filled  the  Marche 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT       97 

Saint-Honore,  as  they  entered  the  Benefit  Society  of 
their  Association,  where  there  was  an  employment 
office.  The  odour  that  clung  to  the  clothes  of  these 
men,  waiting  near  the  door  of  the  office,  proclaimed 
their  occupation;  it  was  the  same  odour  that  rises 
from  the  basement  windows  of  a  restaurant.  The 
summer  season  had  just  come  to  an  end,  and  Paris, 
the  great  centre  of  employment,  was  full  of  these 
men. 

The  chance  of  a  day's  work  as  extra  help,  especially 
on  Sunday  when  people  generally  dine  at  restaurants, 
enabled  them  to  wait  patiently  near  the  office.  The 
pay  for  a  chef  was  ten  francs,  for  an  assistant,  five, 
food  included;  and  those  who  did  not  come  in  for 
these  little  windfalls  got  angry  with  the  manager  and 
accused  him  of  favouritism,  but  never  to  his  face,  even 
though  they  had  paid  their  Association  fee  of  three 
francs  regularly  every  month. 

There  are  few  revolutionary  spirits  amongst  the 
members  of  these  associations;  permanent  distress 
only  occurs  in  the  case  of  old  men,  who  have  been 
given  the  sack  on  account  of  their  age.  The  young 
ones,  devoted  to  their  work  and  the  earning  of  their 
living,  have  the  ambition  to  be  chefs  one  day,  and 
they  look  forward  to  the  possibility  of  a  little  income 
at  the  age  of  forty-five. 

The  minds  of  many  are  absorbed  by  the  search  for 
a  nice  place  in  a  private  house,  where  the  work  is  easy 


98  PEOPLE 

and  brings  them  peace  and  quiet.  Men  who  require 
more  excitement  stay  in  the  restaurants,  and  feed  their 
temperaments  upon  the  noise  and  bustle  which  is  im- 
possible for  a  private  servant.  These  men  know  what 
it  is  to  be  hungry. 

Accents  from  every  part  of  France  can  be  detected 
in  the  speech  of  these  wanderers,  but  the  "  merde 
dors"  of  the  department  of  the  Seine  is  heard  most 
often.  Men  arrive  from  abroad,  linguists  now  by 
virtue  of  "  thank  you  "  or  "  grazie."  Weighed  down 
by  the  future's  uncertainty,  they  wait  patiently,  with 
their  cold  feet  in  shoes  that  cannot  shine  because  they 
are  covered  with  grease. 

Most  jobs  were  fixed  up  in  the  bars.  Rather  than 
trust  to  the  manager  of  the  Association,  the  chefs 
chose  their  own  assistants.  At  the  marble-topped 
tables,  cards  were  played  and  white  wine  was  drunk 
until  ten  o'clock,  then  aperitifs  until  noon,  in  order 
to  keep  in  the  good  graces  of  the  proprietor,  who  soon 
greeted  M.  Montchanin  with  a  cordial  hand-shake. 
M.  Montchanin  was  chef  at  Chevalier's,  at  a  salary 
of  eight  hundred  francs  a  month,  and  he  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  bar  came  from  the  same  province. 
This  latter  gentleman,  whose  stomach  had  too  long 
been  the  prey  of  "  What'll  you  have?  ",  was  very 
anxious  to  please  Baugalois  and  Jandet,  who  were  sit- 
ting at  a  table  near  the  door,  lettered:  WINES — 
LIQUEURS,  for  there  were  nineteen  white  wines,  six 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT       99 

absinths,  and  eleven  black  currant  cordials  chalked  up 
against  them. 

He  advised  M.  Montchanin  to  engage  them,  to  re- 
place the  two  he  had  sacked  with  a  week's  pay  the 
day  before. 

"  Two  good  little  fellas;  quiet  and  never  thirsty. 
White  wine  in  the  morning,  aperitif  at  noon,  then 
coffee  and  a  few  glasses  of  beer.  Never  get  loaded." 

M.  Montchanin  looked  at  their  certificates,  and  said 
he  would  take  them  at  ninety  francs  a  month,  Bau- 
galois  as  entremets-cook,  Jandet  as  larder-man.  The 
proprietor  wished  them  good  luck  at  the  chef's  ex- 
pense: 

"  What'll  you  have?  " 

From  the  cupboard  they  got  their  bundles,  which 
looked  like  galantines:  white  jacket,  slippers,  and 
knives;  and  they  started  out  briskly  towards  Cheva- 
lier's. 

To  other  young  men  who  came  to  drink  white  wine 
there,  the  proprietor  offered  encouragement: 

"  It'll  be  your  turn  soon." 

Someone  congratulated  them  on  having  missed  the 
Chevalier  job: 

"  Oh,  that  hole!  Boiled  beef  every  day,  and  not 
enough  o'  that  to  fill  yer  gut." 

M.  Montchanin  had  been  decorated  by  the  Agricul- 
tural Society  for  his  interest  in  the  yearly  Culinary 
Exhibition.  His  weakness  for  honours  of  this  sort  had 


ioo  PEOPLE 

now  plunged  him  into  the  engrossing  management  of 
'a  Benefit  Society.  Other  dignitaries  of  the  Associa- 
tion got  as  far  as  the  Legion  of  Honour,  when  they 
became  rich  and  could  get  what  they  wanted. 

Baugalois  and  Jandet  went  down  into  the  kitchen 
of  the  Chevalier  Restaurant.  Men  in  white  jackets 
were  busy  around  the  stoves  and  the  heavy  wooden 
tables,  preparing  for  the  midday  meal.  An  assistant 
larder-man  brought  twelve  chickens  to  the  roaster, 
perspiring  before  his  spit,  then  he  showed  the  two  new 
arrivals  where  to  put  their  things:  a  tiny  windowless 
room  lit  by  electricity.  The  smell  of  cooking,  confined 
in  this  place,  was  so  strong  that  even  those  accustomed 
to  it  had  difficulty  in  breathing. 

Baugalois  and  Jandet  put  on  their  jackets  and  caps, 
grasped  their  knives,  and  moved  silently  across  the 
sawdust-covered  floor  in  slippered  feet:  Baugalois  to 
his  stove,  and  Jandet  to  the  refrigerator  room. 

The  head  entremets-cook  threw  some  beans  into 
boiling  water  to  bleach,  shook  hands  with  his  new 
first  assistant,  and  gave  him  a  clean  apron  and  two 
clean  dish-cloths;  these  articles  would  be  supplied  to 
him  every  Thursday  and  Sunday. 

Baugalois  looked  spotlessly  clean  beside  the  second 
assistant,  whose  apron  was  black  with  three  days' 
use.  While  wiping  off  the  table  with  a  damp  cloth, 
he  explained  to  the  newcomer  how  to  lay  the  things 
out:  where  to  put  the  spice-box,  the  string  basket,  and 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT      101 

at  which  corner  of  the  stove  to  place  the  steamer  for 
soups.  Then  he  began  to  pull  his  leg: 

"  Know  how  to  make  an  omlette  in  a  salad-basket?  " 

Baugalois  was  afraid  that  his  ability  would  not  dis- 
play itself  immediately  in  this  new  place,  and  that  he 
might  hear  that  terrifying  phrase: 

"  Is  there  anything  you  can  do?  " 

The  howler  who  received  the  orders  from  upstairs 
yelled: 

"  Un  maquereau  a  la  Bom  de  Castellane!  " 

The  sauce-man  answered  for  the  first  courses,  and 
the  roaster  for  the  roasts,  the  grills,  and  the  fries. 
The  heaviest  burden  fell  upon  these  men  in  the  base- 
ments at  meal  hours,  for  it  was  then  that  the  fires 
were  hottest.  The  red  surface  of  the  stoves  produced 
a  terrific  heat,  and  the  stifled  cooks  poured  _with  per- 
spiration, but  their  agility  was  astonishing.  Little  dry 
clouds  of  sawdust  followed  their  rapid  footsteps. 
Each  one  kept  his  temper  until  someone  bumped  into 
him,  and  then  the  oaths  broke  forth  with  force  and 
promptness. 

The  howler  yelled  to  the  entremets-cook:  "  Mush 
for  the  dog!  " 

"  Oh,  hell;  I  forgot  the  brute!  "  was  the  angry  re- 
sponse. 

The  second  assistant  darted  after  a  brass  casserole, 
and  plunked  it  down  on  the  stove;  into  it  he  put  the 
soft  part  of  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  consomme,  and 


102  PEOPLE 

then,  with  a  swift  movement,  forked  out  the  bread  and 
brought  the  consomme  to  a  boil. 

The  head  entremets-cook,  rapidly  buttering  some 
vegetables,  explained  to  Baugalois: 

"  Every  day  at  noon:  a  panada  with  consomme  and 
chopped  meat.  The  brute  belongs  to  a  harlot.  First- 
class  references!  " 

He  shouted  to  the  larder-man: 

"  Meat  for  the  dog!  "  And  Jandet  emerged  briskly 
from  the  cool  room,  where  one's  cheeks  stayed  pink. 

The  howler  grumbled: 

"  Go  get  your  mush,  my  pet! "  Then  he  told 
Baugalois: 

"  Here's  a  customer  to  look  after.  A  hundred  sous 
a  day  for  a  dog!  No  bones  and  chopped  very  fine! 
No  grease!  " 

Baugalois  accomplished  this  little  job  easily,  but  he 
whispered  his  indignation  to  the  second  assistant: 

"  It's  a  damn  shame!  I've  been  starving  for  two 
months;  there's  been  plenty  o'  days  when  I  didn't  eat 
nothin'.  A  hundred  sous  for  a  brute  of  a  dog,  and  I 
know  lots  o'  guys  who  ain't  got  fifteen." 

The  second  assistant  agreed  heartily: 

"  We  gets  boiled  beef,  and  that  brute  laps  up  the 
broth." 

Clearing  his  throat  with  a  cough,  he  spat  copiously 
into  the  casserole: 

"  Eat  that.    There  ain't  no  bones  in  it!  " 


AT  THE  CHEVALIER  RESTAURANT      103 

Baugalois  lessened  his  indignation  by  contributing 
in  a  similarly  outrageous  manner  to  the  nourishment 
of  the  pampered  animal.  Thus  their  injured  sense  of 
justice  was  avenged. 


FAT-MONTH 

THE  oven-man  at  Nicollet's  confectionery  shop  had 
been  taken  on  at  fifty  francs  a  month  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  only  twenty-six.  The  apprentices 
called  him  Fat-Month.  He  was  a  good  worker,  and 
caught  on  to  his  job  very  quickly;  then  he  made  a 
totally  different  arrangement  of  the  utensils  in  the 
bakehouse,  according  to  his  own  ideas:  the  baking 
tins  near  the  door,  in  order  to  save  the  steps  of  those 
who  came  to  get  them.  The  flour-man,  who  had  been 
with  Nicollet  for  fifteen  years,  protested  against  all 
these  changes: 

"This  is  what  ye  might  call  a  revolution!  Every- 
thing was  all  right  before  that  devil  came!  "  And 
he  left  the  pie-dishes  in  a  heap  near  their  old  place. 
Fat-Month  picked  them  up,  and  piled  them,  between 
some  puff-paste  ready  for  rolling  out  and  a  lump  of 
brioche  dough,  on  the  marble  rolling  slab.  Then  he 
went  back  to  the  bakehouse  and  complained  to 
Henri,  his  apprentice,  whom  they  called  Joseph  be- 
cause there  were  already  two  Henris  in  the  establish- 
ment: 

"  A  good  workman  always  tidies  up  after  his  work; 
it's  easy  to  spot  the  messy  ones.  They're  always  for- 
gettin'  somethin';  it's  like  not  bein'  house-broke!  " 

104 


FAT-MONTH  105 

"  Not  much  grub  here,  is  there,  old  man?  " 

"  Be  quick,  Midget,  loosen  these  and  jump  them 
out."  He  was  the  smallest  of  all  the  apprentices, 
hence  this  nickname. 

Fat-Month  drew  a  pan  of  plum  cakes  out  of  a  slow 
oven,  and  the  black  handle  of  the  oven-shovel  missed 
the  opposite  wall  of  the  narrow  room.  Through  the 
one  little  window,  one  could  see  the  legs  of  the  people 
on  the  pavement,  and  often  the  same  legs  stopped  for 
a  long  time  in  front  of  the  shop  window;  these  people 
would  always  have  the  glass  between  them  and  the 
good  things  like  that.  Then  there  were  the  street 
children,  whose  heads  could  be  seen;  the  smell  of  cook- 
ing pastry  made  their  mouths  water,  and  their  dirty 
little  hands  tightened  on  the  gratings.  When  there 
were  too  many  of  them,  the  men  in  the  bakehouse  had 
no  light,  and  it  was  the  custom  to  soak  them  with 
the  water-sprinkler,  but  Fat-Month  did  away  with  this 
procedure.  He  warned  Joseph: 

"  If  anyone  beats  you  up,  Colossus,  when  I'm  not 
there,  give  me  a  call.  There's  no  one  but  me  has  the 
right  to  do  that,  and  I  ain't  never  done  it  yet,  have  I, 
Little  Empty  Gut?  But  if  you  slop  water  in  the  faces 
of  those  brats,  I'll  kick  yer  tail." 

M.  Nicollet,  a  stocky  little  man  in  a  white  jacket 
with  pearl  buttons,  shouted  on  the  way  down  the 
stairs: 

"  Things  goin'  all  right?  " 


io6  PEOPLE 

Fat-Month  unfolded  two  arms  of  the  gas  light  to  let 
his  boss  see  the  pastry  being  taken  out  of  the  quick 
oven  to  be  put  back  into  a  slow  one  to  develop  prop- 
erly. Contentment  was  visible  upon  M.  Nicollet's 
round  face,  but  he  spoke  with  the  oven-man  as  though 
matters  of  the  most  serious  nature  were  under  discus- 
sion. 

Fat-Month  was  never  the  man  to  talk  about  his  old 
jobs.  His  past  was  as  much  of  a  secret  as  those  of 
the  other  men  were  common  knowledge.  With  them 
it  was  always: 

"When  I  was  with  Barbauneux  in  the  Place  du 
Havre  .  .  .",  or  else:  "Don't  tell  me  anything 
about  candy  flowers;  I  used  to  make  'em  at  old 
Pointu's." 

The  flour-man  scraped  the  dough  from  his  fingers, 
and  addressed  M.  Nicollet: 

"  Ye're  not  going  to  keep  that  lump  o'  flesh,  are  you? 
Where's  he  come  from?  He's  always  frowning.  I 
likes  to  work  along  with  guys  when  I  knows  what's 
in  their  heads.  He  ain't  paid  his  way  in  here;  we 
never  yet  had  a  drink  together!  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
where  I  was  before  comin'  here!  ..." 

"  He  holds  down  his  job  to  suit  me,"  said  M. 
Nicollet;  he  wanted  to  keep  this  man,  who  worked 
hard  for  small  wages. 

Joseph,  thinking  to  imitate  the  manner  of  Fat- 
Month,  started  to  plague  the  flour-man's  apprentice, 


FAT-MONTH  107 

one  of  the  other  Henris,  who  was  called  Chocolate 
because  of  his  dark  skin.  Once  Chocolate  came  stag- 
gering by  with  a  load  of  cold  baking  tins,  and  shouted, 
"  Hot!  "  in  order  to  clear  the  way.  Joseph  loitered 
in  front  of  him,  but  Fat-Month  pulled  him  roughly 
aside: 

"Don't  you  know  you've  got  to  make  room  for 
people  carrying  things?  " 

At  the  dead  season  there  were  only  small  bakings 
for  the  shop,  and  big  orders  for  private  houses  were 
rare.  When  there  was  no  baking  to  be  done,  Fat- 
Month  and  Joseph  polished  the  steel  fishes  on  the 
oven  doors  with  emery  paper.  Then  they  burnt  up 
the  cockroaches  that  swarmed  behind  the  pie-dishes. 
It  was  a  bad  year  for  these,  and  they  often  fell  into 
the  dough  before  baking,  leaving  their  almond-shaped 
imprints  upon  the  cakes  when  they  came  out  of  the 
oven.  Fat-Month  asked  M.  Nicollet  to  give  him  some 
redding  for  the  bricks,  but  the  answer  was:  "We'll 
see  about  that  next  year."  M.  Nicollet  was  making 
his  fortune,  sou  by  sou. 

Fat-Month  took  out  his  baking,  done  to  a  nicety, 
then  re-brushed  the  rolls  of  the  day  before  with  the 
yolk  of  an  egg,  and  put  them  in  the  oven  for  a  mo- 
ment to  give  them  a  crackle.  This  finished,  he  sat 
down  to  read  a  pamphlet,  but  the  next  moment  M. 
Nicollet,  having  been  promptly  notified,  appeared  on 
the  stairs  again: 


io8  PEOPLE 

"  Well,  what  about  your  work?  " 

"I  ain't  got  nothing  to  do  but  redden  the  bricks!  " 

M.  Nicollet's  red  face,  beneath  his  white  cap,  be- 
trayed his  anger;  he  was  master  of  his  well-lit  store 
and  his  dingy  basement.  He  was  breathing  fast,  as 
though  he  had  been  running,  but  he  kept  his  temper: 

"  Buy  the  redding  instead  of  wasting  your  sous  on 
books.  It'll  keep  your  hand  in." 

When  there  was  nothing  in  the  oven,  Fat-Month 
continued  his  laborious  reading.  Sometimes  it  took 
him  a  whole  day  to  read  a  page,  for  his  attention  often 
strayed,  and  he  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  with 
compressed  lips,  as  motionless  as  an  image. 

The  flour-man  was  standing  in  the  corner  by  the 
sink,  where  a  man  got  fifty  francs  a  month  for  scrub- 
bing the  utensils,  after  washing  them  in  foul-smelling 
water.  He  darted  an  unfinished  sneer  at  Fat-Month, 
which  left  his  mouth  open  in  his  flour-covered  face, 
then  he  burst  out: 

"Did  you  ever  know  the  beat  o'  that?  A  guy 
readin'  in  workin'  hours!  A  fine  example  for  the 
apprentices!  I  don't  drink  in  workin'  hours,  now, 
do  I?  Drinkin'  don't  hinder  you  like  readin',  either. 
And  you're  much  fresher  fer  yer  work  if  you  go  to  a 
house  of  nights,  than  if  you  go  to  one  of  them  lecture 
courses." 

He  never  read  anything,  not  even  the  papers.  But 
he  was  often  drunk,  and  boasted  of  the  number  of 


FAT-MONTH  109 

drinks  he  could  hold,  as  well  as  of  his  collection  of 
venereal  diseases.  He  came  to  his  work  restless  and 
loud-mouthed  about  his  ability: 

"  Look  how  much  I  turned  out  to-day,  and  it's  all 
good  stuff  too.  I  never  hit  the  sheets  at  all  last  night, 
and  poured  thirty  drinks  into  my  gut."  He  went  be- 
hind the  ice-box  for  a  moment.  "  That's  my  seventh 
for  to-day  and  I  ought  to  get  a  tobacco-shop  from 
the  Government." 

Fat-Month  called  to  him  from  the  oven: 

"Yer  rum-cakes  is  leaking"  for  the  moulds  were 
overflowing. 

The  flour-man  retaliated: 

"  It's  you  done  that.    You  raised  'em  too  quick." 

Fat-Month  was  angry: 

"  Come  cook  'em  yerself,  bone-head.  You'd  do  yer 
work  better  if  you  weren't  such  a  tank." 

The  flour-man  came  back  at  him: 

"It's  you's  the  bone-head.  And  readin's  what's 
done  it.  You  ain't  got  the  guts  to  take  a  drink." 

At  that  moment  M.  Nicollet  arrived  upon  the  scene: 

"  Get  to  yer  work,  will  you!  And  don't  let  me  hear 
any  more  rumpus." 

"  All  right,"  said  Fat-Month,  "  only  you've  got  to 
tell  him  it's  his  fault.  Look  what  a  mess  that  is." 

M.  Nicollet  didn't  want  to  take  sides  with  a  new 
man  against  an  old  one: 

"  Don't  tell  me  what  to  do.   I'm  boss  around  here!  " 


i  io  PEOPLE 

Fat-Month  took  off  his  apron: 

"  You  won't  do  it?  ...  All  right,  I'm  leaving." 

Seeing  that  he  had  no  chance  of  keeping  this  valuable 
though  stubborn  man,  the  boss  let  him  have  it: 

"  So  this  is  what  I  get  for  my  trouble,  old  sour-facel 
And  after  I  was  willing  to  take  you  without  a  certifi- 
cate! .  .  .  You  went  after  your  other  employer  with 
a  shovel.  .  .  .  And  you  know  what  we  agreed. 
...  No  fighting,  or  else  .  .  .  You  can't  expect  a 
reference.  ..." 

"  I  never  fight,"  said  Fat-Month.  "  I'm  not  getting 
fair  play,  and  I'm  going  when  I've  done  me  work. 
I'll  finish  what  I  got  started  in  the  oven,  and  leave 
everything  tidy." 

The  flour-man  beat  a  march  with  his  rolling-pin  on 
the  marble  slab,  while  Fat-Month  rolled  up  his  things 
without  tying  them  up,  so  that  he  could  show  M. 
Nicollet  that  he  hadn't  taken  anything.  At  the  foot 
of  the  dusty  stairway,  he  shook  hands  with  Joseph, 
who  had  put  on  a  clean  jacket.  It  was  the  smallest 
one  in  the  place,  but  the  sleeves  had  to  be  turned  up 
because  they  covered  his  hands. 

"  Good-bye,  Colossus.  And  there's  two  things  you 
must  always  care  about:  Justice  and  yer  work." 


THE  FLY-CATCHER 

JULES  GHYS'S  family  used  to  say: 

"  He's  not  ill,  he's  only  drunk." 

This  was  why,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  he  became  an 
inmate  of  the  Home  for  Incurables,  and  appeared  to 
spend  his  days  in  catching  flies.  Not  that  he  could 
ever  have  actually  caught  one,  but,  owing  to  a  nervous 
twitching  motion, — produced  by  the  six  thousand  litres 
of  gin  he  had  consumed,  a  pint  a  day, — one  got  the 
impression  that  this  was  his  occupation,  and  they 
called  him  the  Fly-Catcher.  He  hardly  ever  left  the 
Home,  for  the  manager  wouldn't  allow  him  to  go  out 
alone,  and  his  people,  who  were  beet-distillers  at  Pont- 
a-Marcq,  refused  to  have  visits  from  him  there.  They 
had  their  reputation  to  think  of. 

His  joy  was  unbounded  when  he  discovered,  one 
day,  that  all  the  old  men  and  incurables  had  to  go  to 
the  municipal  elections,  to  vote  for  the  retiring 
Council.  He  had  to  be  dosed  with  bromide,  in  order 
to  forestall  his  twitch  No.  2.  This  was  to  beat  one 
of  his  buttocks  with  his  clenched  fist,  and  if,  by  mis- 
take, he  attacked  himself  in  front,  the  beating  occurred 
somewhere  beneath  his  navel.  This  seeming  obscenity 
afforded  great  amusement  to  his  grinning  audience  of 
urchins  and  old  men. 

in 


112  PEOPLE 

M.  Tison,  besides  being  Mayor,  was  a  prosperous 
restaurant  owner,  and  his  122  bars  had  supplied  many 
patients  to  the  Home  he  had  endowed  in  order  to 
obtain  a  decoration.  To-day  he  had  come  to  speak 
to  these  old  men,  broken  down  by  work  or  alcohol. 
Their  intense  stupidity  gave  them  an  appearance  of 
rapt  attention,  as  they  sat  with  hands  on  their  canes, 
and  their  rounded  backs  stretching  their  blue  uniforms 
out  of  shape.  The  attendants  kept  the  Fly-Catcher 
at  the  back  of  the  hall,  with  the  others  who  had  em- 
barrassing peculiarities. 

After  this  ceremony,  the  ones  who  still  had  the 
power  of  speech,  drew  aside  those  who  could  only 
slobber,  and  complained  bitterly  against  the  food  they 
were  given  to  eat: 

"We  ga'  t'  eat  raw  herr'n.  Th'  blood  goes  tchik 
when  yo'  bite  'em." 

They  were  given  two  ballots,  not  blank  ones,  but 
bearing  M.  Tison's  name,  one  in  each  pocket,  to  re- 
lieve them  of  the  trouble  of  searching. 

M.  Hanel  was  in  great  favour  with  the  retiring 
Council,  and,  consequently,  the  possessor  of  a  decora- 
tion, in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  owing  to  his  engrossing 
occupation  of  selling  beer  and  gin,  he  had  almost  for- 
gotten how  to  write.  The  Fly-Catcher,  and  his 
freakish  companions,  were  placed  in  charge  of  M. 
Hanel  and  four  members  of  M.  Tison's  committee, 
lor  they  needed  steering  in  the  crowd  of  other  old 


THE  FLY-CATCHER  113 

men,  also  well  primed,  but  who  were  allowed  to  vote 
without  help. 

Gay-coloured  posters  in  the  rue  de  Lille  set  forth 
the  usual  political  qualifications  of  the  candidates. 
M.  Tison's  men  were  quick  to  cover  the  Opposition's 
declarations  with  a  lengthy  discourse,  that  began  as 
follows: 

"  That  wretched  M.  Chapelier,  whose  head  must  be 
full  of  dough  rather  than  brains,  and  who  cannot  keep 
a  servant  in  his  house,  has  the  effrontery  to  believe 
that  he  can  conduct  the  government  of  the  com- 
mune. ..." 

M.  Chapelier's  committee  utilized  the  posters  which 
had  been  drawn  up  by  M.  Tison's  followers  four  years 
before,  and  they  argued  that,  since  these  pronounce- 
ments had  won  the  election  for  the  Opposition  then, 
they  might  win  it  for  M.  Chapelier  this  time.  The 
name  on  the  red  placard  was  all  that  had  to  be 
changed: 

"  That  worthless  individual,  M.  Chapelier  ..." 
And  M.  Tison  was  now  accused,  as  he  had  accused 
his  opponent,  of  never  discharging  his  debts,  of  sleep- 
ing with  his  housemaids,  of  using  consecrated  wafers 
to  affix  advertisements  of  copaiva  balsam  in  lava- 
tories. 

Attention  was  also  called  to  M.  Tison's  declara- 
tions, followed,  in  each  instance,  by  this  simple  re- 
mark: "  What  rubbish!  "  The  quotations  were  printed 


ii4  PEOPLE 

in  the  smallest  type  the  printer  could  produce,  and 
the  replies  in  the  largest: 

"  M.  Tison  accuses  us  of  having  stopped  the  procession  of  the 
Assumption,  and  of  having  ill-treated  the  tradespeople; 

WHAT  RUBBISH! 

M.  Tison  accuses  us  of  having  baptised  our  children,  and  of 
unfaithfulness  to  our  convictions; 

WHAT  RUBBISH/" 

In  a  special  address  to  the  old  men  and  the  in- 
curables, M.  Hanel  said:  "  It's  all  a  big  joke,  because 
they've  put  this  in,  and  it's  true;  that  the  promise, — 
given  before  the  last  elections, — to  increase  the  pen- 
sions of  people  like  you  has  not  been  kept." 

The  old  men  stopped  listening  to  the  haranguing 
of  M.  Hanel,  so  he  shoved  them  gently  towards  the 
door,  with  those  hands  that  were  so  quick  at  pushing 
mugs  across  a  bar. 

"  We  must  hurry  and  vote,  if  you  want  to  have  time 
for  a  drink  afterwards." 

The  Fly-Catcher  was  able,  during  this  commotion, 
to  shake  his  arms  about  as  much  as  he  liked,  and  his 
legs  too,  so  that  he  was  soon  far  from  his  caretakers. 
To  go  after  him  was  out  of  the  question,  because  the 
others  wanted  to  follow  his  example  at  once,  and  they 
needed  the  attention  of  all  the  escorts.  So  the  Fly- 
Catcher  was  abandoned,  in  order  that  the  others  might 
not  escape. 

In  front  of  the  Town  Hall,  M.  Marcilliau,  one  of 


THE  FLY-CATCHER  115 

M.  Chapelier's  committee,  had  the  little  band  of  in- 
curables circularized  by  his  distributers,  and  M. 
Hanel's  men  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  these  papers 
away  from  the  old  men,  who  all  wanted  to  have  what 
their  companions  had. 

When  at  last  they  were  filing  up  the  Town  Hall 
stairs,  M.  Hanel  prepared  them  for  their  electoral 
duty  by  carefully  examining  their  ballots,  and  seeing 
that  they  did  not  eat  them  or  use  them  to  polish  the 
hand-rail.  When  he  was  satisfied  that  they  all  had 
the  right  ones,  he  thanked  them  after  this  fashion: 

"All  right,  clear  out!  Off  with  you!  "  But  his 
troubles  were  not  yet  ended.  The  appearance  of  the 
Fly-Catcher  in  the  ranks  of  the  Opposition,  under  the 
wings  of  M.  Marcilliau  and  another  of  M.  Chapelier's 
followers,  produced  a  fresh  excitement,  and  M.  Hanel 
was  unable  to  rectify  such  a  flagrant  departure  from 
the  accepted  rules  of  voting,  for  people  were  yelling: 

"  Stop  pushing,  please;  these  gentlemen  know  how 
they  want  to  vote!  " 

This  was  evidently  the  Fly-Catcher's  opinion  too, 
for  he  stuck  close  to  M.  Marcilliau,  who  had  strength- 
ened his  arguments  with  a  big  lump  of  chewing 
tobacco.  The  new  recruit  had  his  mouth  full  of  it, 
and  the  juice  running  from  his  lips  mingled  its  foul 
odour  with  the  reek  of  gin. 

M.  Hanel  whispered  something  to  M.  Desroussaux- 
Seynaeve,  one  of  the  Mayor's  deputies,  who  had 


ii6  PEOPLE 

charge  of  the  ballot-box;  he  was  seated  beneath  the 
plaster  bust  of  the  Republic,  which  looked  very  white 
in  front  of  a  festoon  of  eight  new  tricolour  flags  worth 
95  centimes  each.  He  understood  at  once,  and  being 
able  to  tell  by  the  feel  of  a  ballot  what  name  it  bore, 
he  made  all  the  adverse  ones  worthless  with  an  inky 
finger.  When  the  Fly-Catcher  came  up  with  his  bal- 
lot, the  deputy  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  fluttering 
grasp  without  showing  his  own  dipped  finger,  and  they 
looked  as  though  they  were  both  after  the  same  fly. 
The  Chapelier  committee,  who  were  used  to  all  such 
methods,  kept  a  closer  watch  than  ever,  and  Jules 
Ghys  put  his  valid  ballot  through  the  slit  in  the  pine 
box  with  his  own  hand. 

The  Fly-Catcher's  pleasures  were  now  over.  M. 
Marcilliau  had  had  enough  of  him,  and  a  push  was  all 
the  thanks  he  got  from  that  quarter.  M.  Hanel  ap- 
peased his  anger  by  digging  him  savagely  in  the  ribs, 
and  this  continued  until  he  got  out  into  the  street. 
There  he  followed  a  gang  of  youthful  enthusiasts  who 
passed  by  singing  the  Marseillaise.  The  last  verse 
died  out,  by  arrangement,  in  a  cabaret  where  the  Fly- 
Catcher  had  the  right  to  free  drinks  at  the  expense 
of  the  Tison  committee.  But  his  opinions  were  im- 
possible to  stabilize,  for  he  was  seen  later  on  with 
another  gang  whose  slogan  was:  "  To  hell  with 
priests!  " 

These  simple  words  seemed  to  delight  him,  and, 


THE  FLY-CATCHER  117 

after  being  sick  on  the  floor  of  the  anti-clerical  cabaret, 
— for  which  performance  he  was  ejected  into  the  street 
by  a  perspiring  waiter, — he  went  off,  repeating  them 
over  and  over  again,  with  no  regard  whatever  for  the 
politics  of  his  listeners.  He  barely  escaped  having  to 
undergo  bitter  punishment  for  his  sectarianism,  at  the 
hands  of  another  group,  whose  throats  were  busy  with 
the  praises  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  but  he  changed  his  tune, 
and  could  therefore  enter  their  cabaret. 

Better  news  of  the  election's  progress  calmed  M. 
Hanel's  anger,  and  he  said: 

"Pretty  close  thing,  what!  " 

M.  Marcilliau  agreed  with  him,  which  proved  that 
they  had  both  used,  with  equal  daring,  every  available 
weapon.  Each  had  done  his  utmost,  in  the  way  of 
inventing  slander  and  insult,  and  intoxicating  the 
electors. 

M.  Hanel  was  worried  by  the  thought  of  being 
unable  to  take  the  Fly-Catcher  back  to  the  Home  with 
the  other  old  men.  He  knew  very  well  that  the  gin 
from  M.  Tison's  122  bars  would  have  its  result, 
and  fully  realized  the  harm  that  would  be  done,  should 
the  Opposition  discover  one  of  them  having  an  attack 
of  the  D.T.'s  or  epilepsy  in  the  street. 

The  task  of  finding  the  Fly-Catcher  was  entrusted 
to  M.  Descattoires,  who  was  still  sober,  in  spite  of 
the  enormous  quantity  of  liquor  he  had  been  obliged 
to  consume  while  engaged  in  collecting  voters.  He 


ii8  PEOPLE 

prepared  for  a  long  hunt,  and  went  off  muttering  the 
reward  he  would  exact  for  his  trouble: 

"  Between  here  and  the  Home,  me  old  boy,  I'll  land 
ye  a  hundred  good  roots  in  the  tail." 

The  Fly-Catcher's  political  contradictions  made  the 
realization  of  this  ambition  a  doubtful  matter.  It 
wasn't  worth  while  going  the  rounds  of  all  the  clerical 
cabarets,  only  to  find  the  old  fellow  singing  Red  Revo- 
lution in  the  camp  of  the  Opposition,  so  Descattoires 
endured  their  sour  glances, — happily  not  unaccom- 
panied by  drinks, — and  acquired  this  information: 

"  That  ole  devil  out  o'  th'  Home?  He's  off  wid  a 
lot  o'  them  clerical  guys.  Guess  he's  to  vespers  by 
this  time." 

None  of  the  sleeping  men  in  the  quiet  church  proved 
to  be  the  Fly-Catcher,  and  Descattoires  poked  his  cane 
into  the  confessionals,  and  made  a  useless  trip  around 
by  the  candle-laden  altar.  Then  he  began  conscien- 
tiously to  visit  all  the  bars  again.  At  ten  o'clock  he 
no  longer  knew  his  own  politics.  Some  people  swear 
they  saw  him  with  a  gang  who  were  shouting: 

"  Vive  Chapelierl " 
and 

"  Tison,  c'est  un  cochon 

La  digue  digue  don  ..." 

The  Fly-Catcher  hasn't  been  found  yet,  and  it's  a 
pity,  for  there  is  to  be  a  second  ballot.  He's  got  to 
vote  again. 


A  RICH  CITY 
(1903) 

has  only  recently  become  a  rich  city; 
Roubaix  and  Turcoing  are  passing  through  a  similar 
period  of  industrial  prosperity,  and  the  wooden  army 
huts  outside  the  old  walls  of  Lille  are  now  used  as 
dwellings  by  its  rapidly  increasing  population.  In  the 
old  days,  and  up  to  just  before  the  War  of  1870, 
Armentieres  had  for  its  motto:  "Poor  and  Proud." 
Twenty  years  ago  one  word  of  it  was  changed:  "  Rich 
and  Proud." 

The  textile  industry  brought  this  about  in  one  gen- 
eration. Weavers  with  small  capital  established  them- 
selves as  big  manufacturers,  by  marrying  into  the  rich 
industrial  families  of  Lille.  There  was  money-making 
in  the  air,  and  capital  was  plentiful,  but  this  prosperity 
did  not  extend  outside  the  employer  class;  the  work- 
ing-people reaped  none  of  its  benefits.  Their  numbers 
increased,  in  order  to  supply  more  labour,  but  wages 
remained  miserably  inadequate, — an  essential  factor  in 
the  process  of  fortune-making.  A  few  very  rich  peo- 
ple, and  a  multitude  of  poor  ones!  That  was  what 
made  a  town  prosperous  and  productive!  All  over 
France  people  talked  about  "  The  Wealth  of  Armen- 
tieres." 

119 


120  PEOPLE 

The  little  business  men  who  had  become  big  manu- 
facturers were  all  suffering  from  the  affliction  common 
among  the  new-rich:  the  fear  of  starving.  They  were 
terrified  by  the  thought  of  losing  the  flesh  they  had 
so  lately  taken  on,  and  their  monopoly  of  the  profits 
brought  misery  to  their  unfortunate  dependents. 

Luxury  became  a  necessity  among  these  new-rich; 
if  a  man  was  worth  more  than  his  neighbour,  he 
wished  the  fact  to  be  known,  and  he  didn't  mind  pay- 
ing to  prove  it.  The  misery  of  the  workers  increased 
proportionately,  and  neither  their  indignation,  nor 
their  strikes,  nor  the  tariff  of  1889,  could  check  this 
mad  desire  for  gain  on  the  part  of  the  manufacturers, 
or  their  determination  to  give  the  worker  the  least 
possible  share  in  it:  the  price  of  his  slice  of  bread  with 
no  meat  on  it,  and  his  pint  of  beer. 

The  families  of  the  manufacturers  were  as  large  as 
those  of  the  workers,  and  more  money  was  needed  to 
establish  these  children  in  business.  The  worker's 
wrath  becomes  all  the  more  violent  when  he  has 
watched  a  pile  being  made  in  one  generation.  Per- 
haps his  father  had  known  a  manufacturer,  or  one 
whose  son  was  now  a  manufacturer,  when  he  only  had 
a  little  spinning-mill  and  a  small  piece  of  land,  or 
even  when  he  was  still  an  overseer.  They  had  been 
friends  in  those  days,  and  then  came  the  rich  marriage 
and  the  prosperity;  the  succeeding  years  brought 
wretched  poverty  to  one  and  great  riches  to  the  other, 


A  RICH  CITY  121 

and  to-day  they  pass  each  other  without  speaking. 
The  workman's  son  watches  the  manufacturer's  wealth 
growing  each  day,  and  he  sees  his  own  existence  fol- 
lowing the  same  miserable  course  as  that  of  his  father. 

The  jealousy  of  this  multitude  of  workmen  who 
have  remained  poor  makes  Armentieres  a  furnace  of 
hatred,  and  strikes  become  bitter  contests;  old,  deep- 
rooted  passions  flame  up  into  deeds  that  lead  to  riots 
and  plundering. 

We  have  just  seen  this  happen. 

The  rich  man  holds  himself  aloof  from  everything. 
He  helps  nobody  and  patronizes  none  of  the  shops. 
All  his  clothes,  his  shoes,  and  his  furniture  come  from 
Lille  or  Paris.  At  Armentieres,  no  shop-keeper  could 
exist  by  catering  to  the  rich,  and  there  are  only  little 
shops  for  the  poor.  Building  firms  are  the  only  local 
ones  patronized  by  the  rich  man.  His  factory,  close 
to  the  station,  and  his  home  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Lys,  provide  his  rivals  with  solid,  visual  proofs  of  his 
financial  standing.  He  places  a  dome  upon  his  fac- 
tory, which  can  be  seen  from  a  great  distance;  it 
serves  no  other  purpose.  Then  his  business  com- 
petitor and  financial  rival  puts  a  more  elaborate  one 
on  his,  that  can  be  seen  from  a  greater  distance.  This 
rivalry  grows  into  a  hatred  which  is  equalled  only  by 
the  workmen's  hatred  of  them.  Once  a  house  was 
acquired  by  one  of  these  gentlemen  on  Belgian  terri- 
tory, and  one  of  his  rivals  immediately  bought  up  the 


122  PEOPLE 

surrounding  property,  in  order  to  spread  upon  it  every 
possible  kind  of  rubbish  and  filth  from  his  factory  and 
his  country  house.  Two  families  might  have  been  fed 
from  this  land  thus  used  for  no  better  purpose  than 
to  enrage  a  rich  man's  rival. 

The  architecture  of  the  aristocratic  portions  of  the 
city,  where  the  manufacturers  live,  is  expensively 
ornate,  owing  to  a  feverish  inter-city  rivalry.  In  that 
quarter,  one  sees  fat,  overfed  servants,  and  their  mas- 
ters who  appear  to  be  almost  as  well  nourished: 
luxurious  beings,  oozing  greed  and  abundance  from 
every  pore.  And  if  you  want  to  see  the  poor  trash 
upon  whom  they  live,  you  need  only  cross  the  Lys. 
From  the  Grande  Place  to  the  far  end  of  Houplines, 
there  are  rows  of  workmen's  dwellings,  black  and 
monotonous,  with  tiny  doors,  and  windows  with  little 
white  curtains.  Every  now  and  then,  the  high  walls 
of  a  factory  rise  up  abruptly,  and  then  again  the  eye 
follows  the  low  line  of  mean  hovels  on  either  side  of 
the  street.  Here  and  there  the  two  lines  are  cut  by 
short  passages,  through  which  can  be  seen  the  fields 
behind:  that  great  northern  plain  with  its  windmills, 
each  making  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

As  a  supplement  to  their  wretched  wages,  these  peo- 
ple sometimes  dabble  in  fraudulent  trade:  the  intro- 
duction of  Belgian  goods  received  from  professional 
smugglers.  Besides  the  men  who  have  horses  and 
bring  in  full  carts  of  tobacco,  there  are  great  numbers 


A  RICH  CITY  123 

of  Flemish,  Belgian,  and  French  youths  who  support 
themselves  by  means  of  this  illicit  trading,  for  it  is  a 
calling  that  requires  nimble  feet.  Related  to  the 
weavers,  living  and  trading  with  them,  these  youths 
also  hate  the  rich  manufacturers,  and  they  have 
another  quality  common  to  persecuted  men:  audacity. 

They,  and  the  weavers'  sons,  took  prominent  places 
in  the  front  ranks  of  the  mob  that  had  just  converted 
the  strike  into  a  riot;  the  former  did  not  lack  the 
courage  to  strike  the  first  blow,  and  the  other 
youngsters,  who  were  quite  angry  enough,  but  needed 
someone  to  set  the  example,  broke  things  up  with  just 
as  much  spirit,  when  they  had  conquered  their 
timidity.  They  destroyed  the  property  that  had  been 
acquired  by  the  rich  men  with  their  help  and  under 
their  very  eyes;  they  broke  the  windows  without  shut- 
ters as  they  passed,  and  stopped  to  tear  down  shutters 
when  they  found  them.  When  a  house  was  entered, 
nothing  remained  intact.  According  to  the  custom  of 
the  North,  where  it  is  unnecessary  to  shield  oneself 
from  the  sun,  only  the  ground  floor  windows  are 
shuttered,  and  this  for  safety  at  night.  All  the  others 
present  their  unguarded  panes  to  the  street,  irrespec- 
tive of  the  weather. 

The  rich  men's  houses  have  plate-glass  in  their  win- 
dows, affording  a  sight  of  curtain-fringes,  crystal 
chandeliers,  ferns,  and  bronze  statues.  The  lace  at  the 
windows  looks  as  fine  and  white  as  gimp  in  a  show- 


124  PEOPLE 

case.  Look  out!  A  volley  of  big  stones  smashes 
through  it.  Downstairs  the  shutters  are  cracking; 
angry  shouts  come  up  from  the  front  door,  crashing 
inwards.  In  the  invaded  drawing-room,  a  boy  of 
eighteen  is  beating  time  against  a  tall  mirror  with 
two  bronze  candlesticks,  while  the  jagged  pieces  fall 
down  among  the  ornaments  on  the  black  marble 
mantel. 

Hatred  flames  up,  and  has  its  full  revenge.  Two 
poor  railwaymen,  roughly  discharged  by  a  richly 
married  inspector,  have  brought  a  mob  to  ransack 
his  luxurious  house.  Outside  in  the  street,  the  crowds, 
who  hadn't  the  courage  to  join  in  the  plundering,  are 
filled  with  excitement  by  the  noise  within,  and  they 
scream  their  approval,  as  they  push  towards  the 
broken  door.  It  is  irritating  not  to  have  broken  any 
of  those  hated  possessions;  and  they  would  have  gone 
on  until  they  had  destroyed  all  the  houses  of  the 
rich,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sudden  gleam  of  an 
officer's  nickelled  breastplate.  The  men  behind  him, 
with  their  unpolished  ones,  fill  the  street,  and  the 
horses  switch  the  walls  of  the  houses  with  their 
tails. 

The  sight  of  drawn  swords  sends  the  crowds  scut- 
tling homewards;  there  is  a  frantic  clattering  of  heavy 
shoes  through  tiny  back  gardens,  and  excited  discus- 
sions are  carried  on  behind  the  little  white  curtains. 

They  run  before  soldiers,  but  they  bear  them  no 


A  RICH  CITY  125 

ill-will.  If  there  is  one  standing  on  guard  at  a 
blocked  street,  or  on  duty  at  a  factory  entrance,  they 
talk  with  him;  prostitutes  laugh  with  him  or  pity 
him.  The  men  ask,  "  When's  your  time  up?  "  And 
if  a  faint-hearted  one  doesn't  know  how  to  clear  a 
pavement,  lacking  the  courage  to  bring  the  butt-end 
of  his  gun  upon  the  encroaching  feet,  they  will  obey 
him,  to  prevent  his  getting  punished  by  the  watchful 
officer.  They  have  been  soldiers  themselves. 

With  an  officer  it  is  a  different  matter;  towards 
him  they  are  sarcastic  and  insulting,  out  of  revenge 
for  the  treatment  they  received  when  in  service.  His 
gold  braid  is  too  shiny,  and  hurts  their  eyes,  so  they 
throw  mud  at  it.  Braid  is  all  very  well  at  a  pageant, 
but  they  loathe  the  sight  of  it  when  there  is  a  strike 
on.  Then  it  is  a  menace. 

The  most  hated  of  all  is  the  policeman;  he  is  more 
ruthless  than  the  others,  and  the  cleverest  of  all  at 
persecution.  He  knows  his  way  about,  and  is  ac- 
quainted with  everybody.  He  notices  the  smugglers 
who  are  taking  part  in  the  rioting,  for  he's  been  on 
their  track  before,  and  knows  them  both  by  appear- 
ance and  by  name.  He  has  his  fingers  in  everything, 
and  there  are  innumerable  old  scores  against  him  to 
be  settled.  The  rioters  would  like  to  string  up  a 
policeman,  and  one  of  those  elegant  officers  who  look 
like  disguised  women,  and  naturally  a  manufacturer. 


126  PEOPLE 

One  Sunday,  two  weeks  later,  I  came  out  of  the 
Armentieres  station  into  silent  streets.  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  hearing  the  pounding  of  horses'  hoofs 
and  the  clatter  of  fleeing  workmen's  shoes,  and  the 
unexpected  stillness  pleased  me. 

Presently  I  was  accosted  by  several  little  girls  in 
the  most  pitiful  rags,  who  had  been  leaning  against 
a  wall.  One  of  them  asked  eagerly  for  money.  Her 
hair  was  pulled  tightly  to  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
tied  with  an  old  piece  of  red  ribbon  that  had  become 
a  mere  cord,  making  her  bared  ears  look  enormous. 

"  Please,  Mister,  there's  six  of  us  at  home,  and  we 
ain't  got  enough  to  eat." 

The  others  hadn't  their  hair  combed  at  all,  and 
moaned  unintelligibly.  I  walked  off  rapidly,  for  I  had 
next  to  nothing  to  live  on  myself,  but  the  little  girl, 
with  her  hair  pulled  back,  ran  along  at  my  side,  re- 
peating: 

"  Mister,  we  ain't  got  enough  to  eat!  " 

If  she  had  been  lying  she  would  have  said,  'We 
ain't  got  nothing  to  eat.' 

Professional  beggars  lie  in  the  superlative,  and  peo- 
ple who  tell  the  truth  speak  a  language  that  the  others 
never  use.  This  little  girl  described  the  actual  state 
of  affairs:  "Not  enough  to  eat."  After  her  meals 
she  was  still  hungry.  I  gave  her  two  sous  and  hurried 
off.  Her  angry  companions  cast  envious  glances  in 
her  direction,  and  she  moved  a  little  away  from  them. 


A  RICH  CITY  127 

Then  they  turned  to  me  again,  and,  pushing  the  hair 
away  from  their  swimming  eyes,  whined: 

"  Me  too,  Mister.    Me  too,  Mister." 

They  pressed  up  close  to  me,  all  except  the  tiniest 
one,  who  was  apparently  a  cripple;  she  seemed  unable 
to  follow  them,  in  spite  of  her  heroic  attempts  to  do 
so,  and  the  one  with  my  two  sous  showed  them  to  her, 
saying: 

"  That  makes  six  already!  " 

When  the  others  saw  her  cross  the  street  towards 
a  man  who  looked  more  prosperous  than  I  did,  they 
abandoned  me  in  order  to  get  to  him  first. 

From  time  to  time  women  passed  arm  in  arm  down 
the  silent  street,  in  badly  fitting  clothes  of  some  plain, 
heavy  material.  Here,  in  the  rich  quarter,  where  the 
rioting  had  taken  place,  many  shutters  and  doors  were 
pieced  with  new  white  wood,  making  them  look  as 
though  they  had  been  bandaged,  and  the  frosted  glass 
transom  above  one  freshly  varnished  door  had  been 
temporarily  repaired  with  a  piece  of  ordinary  window- 
glass.  These  violated  houses,  now  repaired  and  closed 
to  the  street,  had  their  silken  blinds  drawn  down,  like 
closed  eyelids. 

A  young  girl,  followed  by  a  youth,  came  out  of  a 
gate  with  bronze  latches;  both  of  them  were  luxuri- 
ously attired,  healthy,  and  vigorous.  A  tall,  shiny 
collar  seemed  to  push  the  young  man's  thick  lips  and 
fat  chin  into  prominence;  his  slender  companion  was 


128  PEOPLE 

exquisite  in  her  new  frock,  which  exhaled  an  expensive 
perfume.  Once  in  the  street,  she  said  to  him, 
"  Quickly!  "  and  hurried  off  on  the  sharp  toes  of  her 
new  shiny  shoes,  that  crackled  as  she  ran. 

Two  policemen  stood  inoffensively  in  the  square, 
where  I  had  once  seen  bristling  swords  and  shining 
breastplates;  they  were  anxiously  awaiting  the  mo- 
ment when  they  could  knock  off  and  go  and  have  a 
drink.  I  walked  past  the  Town  Hall,  and  on  into  the 
poor  districts,  where  the  broken  iron  covers  of  the 
man-holes  were  still  unreplaced.  In  this  way  traps 
had  been  laid  for  horses  charging  down  the  streets. 
Volleys  of  stones  had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  the  fac- 
tory windows,  and  there  were  jagged  holes  in  all  ex- 
cept one,  high  up  under  the  roof. 

On  Sundays,  and  naturally  during  a  strike,  the  fires 
are  extinguished  and  no  smoke  rises  from  the  chimney. 
Since  there  is  thick  mud  everywhere,  owing  to  the  wet 
weather  and  badly  made  pavements,  boys  who  have 
their  best  clothes  on  can  only  gaze  longingly  at  the 
big  stones  in  the  street.  The  long  rows  of  low  dwell- 
ings, darkened  by  frequent  high  factory-walls,  have  a 
hostile  aspect,  and  it  requires  courage  to  open  one  of 
those  doors,  set  in  endless  black  walls  that  rise  out 
of  the  thick  mud.  Within,  there  is  dreariness  and 
gloom,  until  the  eye  is  relieved  by  the  sight  of  the  first 
window.  A  square  of  bright  light  comes  through  the 
little  muslin  curtains  of  all  these  smoke-blackened 


A  RICH  CITY  129 

hovels.  The  front  door,  though  only  as  big  as  the 
door  of  a  cupboard,  is  kept  shut,  and  the  sill  whitened. 
How  do  people  live  in  places  like  this?  One  can  walk 
the  whole  length  of  that  filthy  street  without  hearing 
a  sound  behind  those  curtains. 

I  discovered  Vandermer's  restaurant,  where  I  had 
taken  refuge  one  day  during  the  rioting,  and  had 
stood  by  the  door  with  the  others  who  were  scoffing 
at  the  cuirassiers.  Mme.  Vandermer  warned  us  that 
they  would  hit  us  with  their  foraging  ropes,  so  we 
withdrew  into  the  restaurant.  Through  the  window, 
we  could  see  some  street  urchins  pick  up  big  stones, 
and  throw  them  at  the  approaching  horsemen.  When 
they  were  about  twenty  yards  off,  the  urchins  retreated 
rapidly  into  a  narrow  alley. 

The  shining  breastplate  of  an  officer  now  appeared, 
and  the  restaurant  curtains,  which  had  been  drawn 
back,  fell  into  their  places.  The  cuirassiers  had  ap- 
proached slowly  during  the  shower  of  stones,  and  they 
now  stretched  across  the  street  from  wall  to  wall.  The 
horse  on  the  pavement  nearest  to  us  clouded  the 
restaurant  window  with  its  breath,  and  its  tail, 
swishing  against  the  glass,  sounded  like  pattering 
rain. 

The  moment  they  had  passed,  we  opened  the  door, 
and  saw  the  long  line  of  shaking  manes  and  unpolished 
breastplates.  Then  the  army  of  urchins  emerged  from 
the  alley,  and  began  picking  up  fresh  ammunition. 


-130  PEOPLE 

This  Sunday  when  I  entered  the  restaurant,  Mme. 
Vandermer  recognized  me: 

"No  soldiers  to-day!  "  She  had  to  say  something 
to  me,  while  pouring  out  my  beer. 

Her  other  customers  were  seated  around  shiny 
tables,  smoking  Belgian  tobacco  in  long  clay  pipes. 
One  serious  old  fellow,  whose  face  was  like  a  stone 
image,  spoke  slowly,  lifting  the  lid  of  his  pewter  mug: 

"  A  fine  business!  All  th'  same,  they  done  too  much 
breakin'  up!  " 

A  young  man,  with  his  cap  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes,  objected: 

"  If  we  hadn't  broke  nothin',  we'd  'a'  got  nothin'  fer 
all  our  trouble!  " 

Both  men  spat  on  the  sanded  floor,  and  pulled  again 
at  their  long  white  pipes.  The  smoke  rose  up  from 
each  table,  like  steam  from  a  huge  soup-kettle,  and 
the  room  was  blue  with  it. 

"  Everybody's  owin'  money  these  days,"  put  in 
Mme.  Vandermer,  "  and  there's  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds out  o'  work!  " 

I  paid  for  my  beer,  and  the  door,  closing  behind 
me,  expelled  a  puff  of  blue  smoke  into  the  street.  As 
I  walked  down  the  long  muddy  thoroughfare  that  leads 
through  Houplines,  my  steps  made  a  noise  like  grease 
on  gear  wheels.  At  the  end  of  each  narrow  passage 
between  the  houses,  I  could  see  the  open  country, 
where  the  wind  blew  ceaselessly  against  the  black 


A  RICH  CITY  131 

poplars,  bending  them  so  continuously  that  their 
efforts  to  straighten  up  again  were  invisible.  One 
would  have  declared  they  had  grown  at  that  angle. 
After  each  little  clear  spot  came  long  stretches  of 
blackened  brick,  dotted  with  white  curtains. 

I  passed  some  men  bound  for  a  cock-fight,  with 
their  birds  in  bags  under  their  arms.  Far  down  the 
street  I  could  hear  the  hooting  of  the  tramway  horn, 
and  this  short,  dismal  sound  fell  clearly  on  my  ears, 
for  there  was  no  echo  in  that  flat  country.  How 
exasperating  those  curtains  were!  Not  even  one 
corner  lifted  up.  Behind  them,  absolute  silence.  They 
gave  one  the  same  feeling  of  uneasiness  as  do  the 
stubbornly  closed  eyes  of  people  who  are  suffering. 
And  were  they  inside  there,  those  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  people  without  work,  and  the  families  of 
those  little  girls  who  had  asked  me  for  money  at  the 
station? 

Still  another  of  those  little  narrow  passages,  opening 
on  to  a  vast  brown  field,  swimming  in  mist  and 
drenched  by  rain.  Then  the  rows  of  lifeless  doors  and 
windows  again.  Oh,  the  poverty  behind  those  white 
curtains!  And  the  cock-fighters  still  walked  past: 
ignorant,  boastful  men  chattering  about  the  birds  they 
were  taking  to  be  killed.  I  turned  into  an  alley  lead- 
ing to  a  little  courtyard  surrounded  by  houses  that 
looked  even  smaller  than  the  others.  It  was  like  being 
in  a  hole,  but  I  also  experienced  the  pleasant  sensation 


i32  PEOPLE 

of  having  found  a  refuge;  the  intimate  atmosphere 
of  these  secretive  little  dwellings  seemed  to  come  out 
through  their  walls,  and  pervade  the  deserted  court- 
yard. The  grey  sky  was  so  low  that  it  seemed  to 
touch  the  roofs,  and  this  was  what  gave  me  the  sensa- 
tion of  standing  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit.  The  wind 
blowing  above  them  seemed  to  have  spent  its  force  in 
the  great  surrounding  plain. 

A  tiny  plaintive  sound  was  coming  from  one  of  the 
houses,  and  I  pretended  to  take  a  drink  at  the  straw- 
covered  pump,  in  order  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I  was 
listening.  There,  behind  one  of  those  curtains,  some- 
one was  playing  an  accordion  very  gently,  meekly, 
secretly.  It  was  easy  to  guess  that  the  person  playing 
it  like  this  had  a  shy  disposition,  and  that  he  went 
through  life  without  ever  being  at  his  ease;  readily 
discouraged,  and  trying  to  take  up  as  little  room  as 
he  possibly  could.  It  was  like  a  disinherited  child, — 
proud  and  sensitive, — sobbing  where  no  one  could 
hear.  ...  I  longed  to  see  his  face.  Was  he  old? 
Was  he  young?  I  shall  never  know. 

It  was  a  refined  little  complaint,  behind  a  very  white 
curtain  in  a  tiny  black  house,  with  the  wind  of  the 
plains  roaring  above.  And  I  shall  never  forget  it. 


"MILLER,  YOU'RE  ASLEEP" 

"MILLER,  you're  asleep"  said  the  inquisitive  visitor 
to  the  man  who  sat  on  a  pile  of  bags,  with  his  back 
against  a  board  partition.  He  had  been  asleep,  in 
spite  of  the  vibration  caused  by  the  turning  sails,  but 
now  he  slowly  lifted  his  eyelids,  and  his  grey  eyes 
shone  forth  from  his  flour-covered  face.  The  inquisi- 
tive man  asked: 

"  Isn't  the  mill  running  too  fast?  Surely  this  gale 
is  too  much  for  it?  " 

The  man  who  had  been  awakened  stretched  out  his 
arms  until  one  had  the  impression  of  a  crucifixion: 

"  If  you  were  a  miller,  you  wouldn't  be  afraid  of 
wind  hurting  a  windmill.  For  eight  days  there's  only 
been  a  little  soft  breeze,  low  down  on  the  ground,  but 
yesterday  morning  it  began  to  come  fresh  and  sharp 
out  of  the  north.  Last  night  the  sails  were  moving; 
they  could  feel  the  wind.  Now  it's  dropped  down 
again." 

His  questioner  was  amazed: 

"  You  work  at  night?  " 

"  All  night.  And  sometimes  after  a  full  day  of  it, 
too.  When  the  wind  blows,  there's  work  to  be  done; 
that's  how  it  is  with  me.  When  the  wind  drops,  the 

133 


134  PEOPLE 

mill's  idle,  but  it's  always  ready  to  do  its  part.  If 
I  had  to  go  to  bed  to  sleep,  I  couldn't  tend  a  windmill. 
A  good  miller  makes  use  of  every  breath  that  blows, 
for  no  man  can  get  back  the  wind  when  it's  died 
down." 

The  visitor  continued: 

"  When  I  first  saw  the  little  mill  from  over  yonder, 
I  said  to  myself:  What  a  pleasant  occupation  that 
would  be;  the  miller  there  must  be  a  happy  man. 
And  now  I  find  you  sometimes  don't  get  your  sleep. 
When  the  miller  sleeps,  it  means  he's  at  the  end  of 
his  strength." 

"  It  worries  me  to  have  the  mill  idle.  And  as  for 
rest,  I  get  plenty  of  it  when  there's  no  wind.  Then 
I've  got  the  canvas  to  mend.  There's  always  some- 
thing to  do.  If  you're  working  in  a  steam  mill,  you 
have  regular  hours;  every  day  is  the  same,  and  the 
machinery  starts  and  stops  whenever  you  want.  But 
the  old  windmills  produce  better  flour." 

The  inquisitive  man  saw  1772  carved  on  the  huge 
oak  trunk  that  served  as  a  pivot  for  this  revolving 
structure,  and  he  examined  the  old  mechanism  of 
wooden  beams  and  rope  transmissions.  There  was  no 
iron  anywhere;  nothing  but  fine  old  carpentry  work, 
with  tenoned  and  mortised  oak. 

"You  couldn't  get  one  built  like  it  to-day,"  said 
the  miller.  "That  oak  pivot  has  a  hundred  and 
twenty-nine  circles:  a  hundred  and  twenty-nine  years! 


"  MILLER,  YOU'RE  ASLEEP  "  135 

You'd  never  be  able  to  hug  that  the  way  you  hug 
your  wife,  and  she'll  never  be  as  old  as  that.  Folks 
don't  want  to  live  that  long.  This  mill's  a  lucky  one, 
too.  Never  a  fire,  from  the  day  it  started  going;  sails 
have  been  carried  away  in  heavy  storms,  but  the  mill's 
never  been  blown  over  since  the  day  it  was  built." 

His  listener  was  lost  in  meditation.  Through  a 
hundred  and  twenty-nine  springs  and  summers  this 
trunk  had  borne  green  foliage  and  had  sheltered  nest- 
ing birds. 

The  miller  went  up  the  ladder  to  pour  some  wheat 
into  the  funnel  above  the  furrowed  grinder,  which  the 
revolving  sails  turned  upon  the  nether  stone.  He  took 
up  a  handful,  and  let  it  fall  back  through  his  fingers 
into  the  funnel. 

"  This  belongs  to  the  farmer  ploughing  over  there," 
he  said;  "  it's  beautiful  wheat."  And  he  pointed 
through  a  little  window,  about  the  size  of  his  face,  to 
a  man  guiding  his  black  horse  over  the  light  brown 
earth,  where  the  wheat  had  ripened  almost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  windmill's  sails. 

The  fields  were  flooded  with  the  pale  green  of  early 
spring,  and  the  branches  of  the  trees  were  still  visible 
behind  tiny  leaves  as  soft  as  down.  "  If  they  would 
only  stay  like  that  and  not  grow  any  more,"  thought 
the  enraptured  man,  and  his  eyes  devoured  the  young 
green,  the  loveliest  green  of  all  the  year.  Then  he 
pointed  to  a  rigid  poplar,  bristling  with  little  branches. 


136  PEOPLE 

"  It  is  said  that  no  man  can  count  the  stars.  Can 
the  branches  of  a  tree  be  counted?  " 

The  miller  took  hold  of  the  rope  beside  the  ladder, 
and  said  good-night,  inclining  his  flour-covered  head: 

"  I've  run  this  mill  for  forty  years;  they  planted 
the  poplars  along  the  road  after  I  came,  and  look  at 
them  now,  higher  than  these  sails." 

"  Forty  years  of  it!  You've  been  able  to  put  by 
something!  " 

"  I've  got  a  little  piece  of  land.  To-day  I  get  forty- 
five  francs  a  month,  and  food  and  lodging  as  well.  At 
one  time  it  was  only  twenty;  there  used  to  be  mills 
scattered  over  the  fields  all  the  way  to  Lille,  but  now 
only  two  oil-mills  are  left,  and  I  am  the  only  one  for 
flour, — not  as  white  as  you  get  from  the  steam  mills, 
but  honest  flour.  At  the  steam  mills  they  do  a  lot 
of  mixing.  Here,  there's  the  grain  from  one  field  only 
in  the  bags." 

The  questioner  continued,  pointing  to  the  man  in 
the  fields: 

"  Does  he  make  his  living?  " 

"  Yes,  there  are  three  like  him  in  the  village,  with 
ovens  in  their  houses.  The  others  give  their  flour  to 
the  baker  to  make  up.  People  like  baker's  bread 
nowadays,  and  there's  money  made  in  that  trade.  My 
employer  charges  thirty  sous  to  grind  a  hectolitre. 
He's  a  carter,  too;  he  takes  in  the  wheat,  and  sends 
back  the  flour,  and  he  doesn't  do  badly  when  the  wind 


"  MILLER,  YOU'RE  ASLEEP  "  137 

is  blowing, — twenty-one  hectolitres  a  day.  He  won't 
make  much  more  to-day;  the  wind's  getting  lazy." 

The  sail  shaft,  which  was  geared  on  to  the  grind- 
stone-pivot with  oak  pegs,  revolved  more  slowly,  caus- 
ing the  ladder  to  quiver  slightly,  and  the  miller  said 
good-night  again  to  his  visitor,  who  descended  cau- 
tiously. The  old  man's  powdery  clothes  gave  him 
the  same  colour  as  the  wood,  and  his  eyes  gleamed 
brightly  through  a  dull  mask  of  dust. 

The  inquisitive  man  walked  for  some  distance  along 
the  grey  road,  and  then  turned  back  to  look  across 
the  green  fields  at  the  mill, — the  earth's  faithful  com- 
panion, for  whose  grindstone  a  hundred  and  fifty 
harvests  had  ripened  under  the  sun.  The  sails  were 
barely  moving  in  the  waning  breeze,  and  they  made 
the  slow,  agonized  gestures  of  a  dying  man. 

Before  very  long,  he  thought,  the  last  sail  will  turn 
its  last  turn.  To-day,  men  let  the  wind  blow  past 
them,  and  this  old  industry  will  soon  disappear. 

A  red  chimney  rose  up  into  the  motionless  twilight 
behind  him;  it  seemed  to  be  still  glowing  with  the  heat 
of  the  vanished  sun, — a  chimney  so  high  and  thin, 
that  its  sootless  smoke  issued  forth,  imperceptibly, 
among  the  little  mauve  clouds  in  the  purple  sky. 

"  When  a  century  or  more  has  passed,"  he  thought, 
"  will  men  stand  in  the  twilight  to  look  upon  the  deli- 
cate ruins  of  the  last  tall  chimney?  The  sails  of  the 
last  windmill  are  precious  to  me  to-day,  and  when  my 


138  PEOPLE 

body  is  part  of  the  earth,  beneath  the  feet  of  men 
who  pass  by  here,  will  they  admire  the  red  stack  above 
the  flaming  furnace?  And  will  they  grieve  when  this 
ancient  pillar,  sending  forth  smoke  like  a  sacrificial 
altar,  yields  up  its  place  to  newer  forms,  while  cen- 
turies pass  over  the  last  miller's  grave: 
Miller,  you're  asleep.  .  .  ." 


A  LABOUR  DEMONSTRATION 

Ax  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  lower  room  of  the 
Labour  Exchange  at  Lille  is  full  of  men  with  clay 
pipes  and  mugs  of  beer.  Puffs  of  white  smoke  rise 
towards  the  ceiling  and  are  lost  in  the  blue  mist.  No 
one  voice  is  trying  to  drown  out  the  rest;  they  are 
all  holding  forth  with  equal  violence,  delighted  to  have 
just  elected  as  deputies  men  who  have  worked  with 
them,  lived  in  the  same  squalor,  and  suffered  similar 
hardships.  They  are  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with 
these  men,  and  carry  them  about  triumphantly  on 
their  shoulders.  Their  election  was  accomplished  in 
spite  of  the  deception  practised  by  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Opposition:  a  party  composed  of  upright  people. 
These  upright  people  brought  in  a  lot  of  disguised 
Belgian  monks,  who  voted  nineteen  times  or  more  on 
false  ballots  obtained  from  the  Town  Hall.  The 
Labour  Exchange  men, — clever  and  determined  indi- 
viduals,— watched  these  cunning  monks,  and  finally 
obliged  the  police  to  show  up  their  flagrant  deception. 
Scandal  broke  loose,  and  the  Mayor,  who  is  a  man  of 
considerable  importance,  resigned  suddenly  this  morn- 
ing. Festivities  and  every  sort  of  merrymaking  are 
taking  place  in  the  poorer  quarters.  The  Flemish 

139 


140  PEOPLE 

workmen, — a  bulky,  malicious  race  of  men, — arrived 
in  force,  and  have  just  knocked  the  gilded  horseman 
from  his  charger;  they  roar  with  laughter  at  the  rich 
men,  and  at  the  priests  too,  for  priests  are  friendly 
with  the  rich  men  here.  It  is  the  priests  who  have  set 
up  this  golden  God, — the  people's  enemy  and  the 
patron  of  Wealth.  It  stands  for  the  oppression  of  the 
poor,  mercilessly  dedicated  to  working  for  low  wages 
and  dwelling  in  death-traps. 

A  man  in  a  priest's  hat  gets  up  on  a  table,  and, 
dipping  a  brush  into  his  glass  of  beer,  he  sprinkles 
the  holy  water  over  the  laughing  faces  of  the  men 
clustering  around  the  kegs. 

Little  red  paper  flags  are  being  sold  in  the  square, 
and  one  sees  them  scattered  through  the  crowd  like 
poppies.  Here  comes  a  procession  from  the  Faubourg 
des  Postes,  marching  behind  its  accordion.  They  call 
themselves:  "The  South." 

"We're  all  right,  us  fellas  from  the  South!  " 

Their  arrival  causes  a  slight  commotion  in  the 
patient  crowd,  but  the  musician  plays  on  solemnly  hi 
front  of  the  crimson,  gilt-lettered  standard.  From 
those  tiny  houses  in  "  The  South,"  black  and  un- 
healthy, and  from  the  abandoned  army-huts,  emerge 
men  and  women  with  determined  faces.  They  are 
going  to  laugh,  and  dance,  and  scoff  at  the  priests — 
those  pitiless  priests  who  distribute  rich  men's  charity 
in  their  homes,  their  ghastly  Charily. 


A  LABOUR  DEMONSTRATION  141 

The  red  flag  of  Poverty,  passing  through  the  crowd, 
is  acclaimed  passionately  by  the  women  and  joyfully 
by  the  children,  and  the  workmen  wave  their  caps 
above  their  heads. 

The  grave-  faced  man  with  the  accordion  stands 
upon  the  table,  from  which  the  holy  water  was 
sprinkled,  and  begins  to  play  the  old  Carmagnole  of 
the  soldiers  of  Wattignies: 


"...  Du  pain  pour  nos 
Vive  le  son    ..." 


They  were  there,  those  men  from  "  The  South,"  at 
Wattignies,  near  Maubeuge.  And  here  come  the  peo- 
ple from  Saint-Saveur,  a  still  more  crowded  quarter: 
filthy  hovels  beneath  the  city  walls.  They  sing: 

".    .    .  A  la  bataille,  Us  ont  du  occur, 
Vivent  les  Saint-Saveur    ..." 

an  old  tune  for  the  fife,  which  was  played  when  the 
army  of  the  North  marched  to  Denain  under  M.  le 
marquis  de  Villars.  They  were  at  Denain,  those  men 
from  Saint-Saveur,  the  Flemish  Infantry. 

This  old,  slow-moving  race  of  labourers,  once  per- 
secuted by  the  barons  with  their  long  spears,  to-day 
by  the  rich  manufacturers  with  their  big  factories, 
irriposed  upon,  beaten,  and  plundered,  has  begun  to 


142  PEOPLE 

bend  under  its  burden.  But  the  patient  giant  can 
rise  up  when  his  time  comes,  obedient  and  insolent, 
oppressed  and  invincible.  To-day  he  is  on  his 
feet. 

Crowds  of  women  have  come  out  to  celebrate  the 
"Broquelet,"  the  festival  of  the  thread.  The 
broquelet  was  the  little  bobbin  once  used  by  the 
Flemish  lace-makers,  who  used  to  sing,  by  the  light 
of  their  little  student  lamps: 

"  Si  tu  ne  dors  point  jusqu'a  demain, 
Tu  me  jeras  bien  du  chagrin" 

To-day  those  lace-makers  and  their  broquelets  have 
vanished,  but  the  festival  of  the  textile  workers  is  still 
called  the  "  Broquelet." 

The  accordion-player  falls  into  line,  and  the  people 
advance  beneath  their  crop  of  flags,  filling  the  streets 
lined  with  hovels  and  factories.  They  march  as  one 
man,  without  confusion  or  jostling;  twenty  thousand 
people,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  except  where  children 
march,  unseen  by  the  onlooker.  The  presence  of  a 
child  is  marked  by  a  well  in  the  dense  mass  of  men 
and  women. 

Directly  behind  the  music  are  those  who  will  take 
active  part  in  the  festival;  they  are  surrounded  by 
masses  of  flowers,  and  everyone  greets  them  by  their 
first  names.  Some  men,  in  clerical  hats,  which  rest 


A  LABOUR  DEMONSTRATION  143 

precariously  upon  their  irreverent  heads,  are  gesticu- 
lating like  preachers,  and  they  pull  them  as  far  down 
over  their  eyes  as  possible. 

The  crowd  surges  by,  demolishing  all  such  obstruc- 
tions as  spectators  leaning  against  the  walls  of  the 
houses,  and  it  carries  them  along  in  its  noisy  current 
of  black  and  red.  The  pace  slackens  as  they  approach 
the  ancient  streets:  Wazemmes;  Little  Belgium;  the 
rue  de  Juliers  where  the  Flemish  of  the  Lys  live,  sons 
of  the  men  who  bled  at  Courtrai,  the  knights  of 
Philippe  le  Bel;  and  the  men  from  the  intractable  city 
of  Ghent.  The  Flemish  words  of  the  Internationale 
issue  forth  from  big,  beer-drinking  mouths  in  solemn 
brown  faces.  The  daylight  begins  to  fade,  and  torch- 
lights are  held  aloft  on  long  poles.  The  crowd  moves 
onward,  persistent,  powerful. 

Someone  is  carrying  a  pretty  little  girl  on  his  shoul- 
ders; she  is  wide-eyed  with  excitement,  but  not  fright- 
ened, for  it  is  her  father  who  is  carrying  her.  He 
sings  with  his  head  bent  forward,  and  his  little 
daughter  waves  a  flag  which  he  bought  her  for  a  sou. 
While  the  accordion  is  playing,  she  jumps  up  and 
down  with  delight,  and  he  clasps  her  feet  to  prevent 
her  from  digging  her  heels  into  his  chest.  Her  tiny 
mouth  moves;  what  is  she  saying?  .  .  .  she  ad- 
vances imperceptible,  triumphant,  with  the  singing 
multitude. 

Now  they  are  passing  through  the  rich  quarter, 


144  PEOPLE 

where  their  arrival  was  preceded  by  the  sound  of  their 
voices.  A  starless  night  hangs  low  over  the  luxurious 
houses,  and  the  wide  streets  enable  the  crowd  to  spread 
to  three  times  its  size.  The  tramways,  unable  to  move, 
cleave  the  human  tide,  and  it  closes  in  again  after 
passing  them.  A  man  hammers  the  iron  shutters  cov- 
ering the  windows  of  expensive  shops,  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  making  a  noise.  Where  the  shutters  have 
not  been  lowered,  he  refrains  from  touching  the  glass. 
All  the  children  are  being  carried  now,  and  they  are 
crying  with  exhaustion.  The  little  girl  with  the  flag 
is  asleep,  with  her  arms  crossed  upon  her  father's 
head.  He  is  still  singing. 

The  poor  quarter  has  emptied  its  people  into  the 
rich  quarter.  The  crowd  fills  the  Grande  Place  now, 
and  the  pavement-tables  of  the  restaurants  are  empty. 
In  the  brilliant  interiors,  behind  the  windows,  men 
with  carefully  tied  cravats  are  comfortably  watching. 
The  people  surge  up  to  them;  some  of  them  emerge 
from  the  flood  of  humanity,  and  stand  upon  the 
tables.  They  break  nothing,  for  their  irresistible  in- 
solence is  appeased  by  putting  their  feet  where  the 
rich  man  puts  his  glass.  The  strength  of  these  men, 
as  profound  as  the  misery  in  which  they  live,  presses 
but  lightly  against  the  walls  of  the  great  houses. 
These  walls  would  totter  to  the  ground  if  they  so 
wished  it,  but  they  pass  on,  with  torches  and  flags, 
towards  their  hovels  and  their  factories. 


145 

The  waiters  emerge  from  the  restaurants  to  wipe 
off  the  tables,  and  the  outraged  rich  men  listen  to  the 
distant  song  of  the  Flemish  working  people,  re-enter- 
ing their  dark  streets  and  wretched  dwellings. 


BOXERS 

THE  square  boxing-ring,  closed  in  by  ropes,  was  as 
white  as  a  bone  in  the  sun,  beneath  the  glare  that 
came  down  from  the  arc-lights.  Upon  the  tiers  of 
the  amphitheatre,  six  thousand  heads,  in  widening  cir- 
cles, made  whitish  lines  upon  the  dark  background  of 
clothing.  At  the  foot  of  this  closely-packed  hill  of 
men,  there  was  a  dazzling  ring  of  plutocrats,  sitting  on 
the  25o-franc  chairs.  Lord  Youngston,  just  arrived 
from  London,  nodded  to  M.  Prat-Hugo,  whose  days 
were  passed  in  watching  horse-races  and  prize-fights. 
He  was  always  seen,  either  sitting  or  standing,  at 
every  exhibition  of  physical  exercise,  and  he  was  called 
The  Sportsman.  He  was  one  of  Lord  Youngston's 
intimates,  when  they  met  on  occasions  like  this,  and 
the  Englishman  welcomed  him  and  spoke  a  few  words 
literally  translated  into  French: 

"  Je  crois  que  Pedlar  Lawn  aura  le  meilleur  de  Jef 
Youno." 

Lord  Youngston  stood  with  his  back  against  the 
platform;  his  arms  were  hanging  at  his  sides,  and  his 
clean-shaven  face  was  devoid  of  expression.  His  head 
was  touching  the  lowest  of  the  ropes,  which  were  en- 
cased in  linen  to  prevent  the  boxers  from  bruising  their 

146 


BOXERS  147 

skin  on  the  bare  hemp.  Towels  were  hanging  in  two 
opposite  corners  of  the  ring. 

The  people  pouring  into  the  amphitheatre  made  a 
noise  like  waves  breaking  on  a  beach,  and  M.  Prat- 
Hugo  said  of  the  crowd: 

"  We  are  getting  very  sporty,  very.    Really!  " 

He  bowed  so  low,  to  greet  some  ladies,  that  he 
almost  squeaked  when  he  straightened  up  again;  then 
he  shook  hands  with  a  young  man  with  a  scab  on  one 
of  his  ears,  who  was,  he  said,  "Our  white  hope, 
middle-weight." 

This  anglicising  of  the  French  language  did  not 
tempt  Lord  Youngston  to  carry  on  a  very  lively  con- 
versation. He  stood  there  in  an  attitude  that  betrayed 
his  title  and  his  profession  of  officer  in  the  Indian 
Army,  and  sedately  watched  the  white-sweatered 
seconds. 

Mac  Ofcourse,  Jef  Youno's  man  of  business,  greeted 
Lord  Youngston,  who  shook  hands  with  him.  His 
face  was  fat  and  very  red,  and,  having  once  been 
the  Scotch  heavy-weight  champion,  his  shoulders,  one 
of  which  was  higher  than  the  other,  were  still  well 
developed.  His  present  occupation  allowed  him  to 
fill  his  stomach  with  dark  beer  and  red  meat,  and, 
since  he  had  taken  to  wearing  evening  dress,  he  was 
nicknamed  Lord  Soho-Square.  He  questioned  Lord 
Youngston: 

"  Have  you  put  anything  on  at  ten  to  four?  " 


i48  PEOPLE 

"  I  hope,"  replied  Lord  Youngston,  "  that  it  will  be 
a  jolly  match." 

Fresh  lamps  blazed  forth  in  the  constellation  above, 
and  the  crowd  thundered  out  cheer  after  cheer,  for 
Pedlar  Lawn  and  Jef  Youno  had  entered  the  ring. 
Pedlar  was  wearing  a  filthy  bath-robe,  and  Jef  had 
thrown  his  black  overcoat  over  his  shoulders,  which 
left  his  calves  uncovered.  The  two  men  sat  down, 
each  in  his  corner,  and  pushed  their  plaster-bound 
hands  into  four-ounce  gloves,  held  out  by  the  seconds. 
One  of  Jef  Youno 's  was  a  Negro. 

The  boxers  pushed  the  stuffing  of  the  gloves  as  far 
as  possible  towards  their  wrists,  in  order  to  unarm 
their  fists,  and  the  referee  made  a  face  as  though  he 
had  eaten  something  he  didn't  like.  He  went  to  the 
middle  of  the  ring  and  shouted: 

"Twenty  rounds  of  three  minutes,  four-ounce 
gloves;  between  Jef  Youno,  one  hundred  and  forty-six 
pounds,  five  ounces,  American,  and  Pedlar  Lawn,  one 
hundred  and  forty-six  pounds,  four  ounces,  English. 

"To  my  right,  Jef  Youno. 

"To  my  left,  Pedlar  Lawn." 

A  mist  of  clapping  hands  rose  from  the  crowd.  The 
boxers  were  naked  except  for  the  necessary  flap,  red 
for  Jef  and  white  for  Pedlar,  and  each  wore  the  flag 
of  his  country  as  a  belt.  They  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  ring,  while  the  referee  reminded  them  of  the 
rules  in  a  low  voice.  Their  bodies  looked  like  two 


BOXERS  149 

white  columns,  from  which  hung  their  arms  and 
brown-gloved  fists.  No  knotty  muscles  were  to  be 
seen;  only  their  full  shoulders  and  their  necks,  where 
the  skin  was  stretched  smoothly  over  the  firm  flesh, 
gave  evidence  of  their  strength.  They  went  back  to 
their  stools,  and  the  order,  "  Seconds  out,"  soon  left 
them  alone  in  the  ring,  each  sitting  calmly  in  his 
corner,  and  seemingly  oblivious  of  the  other.  At  the 
stroke  of  the  gong  they  got  up,  and  the  seconds 
reached  in  and  took  away  the  stools.  Pedlar  Lawn 
was  first  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  dancing  about  on 
his  toes,  and  Jef  Youno  advanced  deliberately. 
Pedlar  came  forward  two  steps  to  meet  him,  and  the 
two  men  feinted  to  draw  out  unguarded  replies,  each 
watching  for  the  chance  to  catch  the  other  napping. 

Pedlar's  left  struck  out  quick  as  a  shot,  reaching 
Jef's  forehead.  The  floor  was  like  a  drum  under  their 
feet,  whose  rapid  blows  upon  it  were  like  heavy  pearls 
falling  from  a  broken  necklace.  Jef  got  it  again  full 
in  his  smiling  face,  and  drew  back,  but  he  suddenly 
crouched,  planting  his  feet  firmly,  and  opposed  his 
shoulder  to  Pedlar's  onslaught.  Then  he  let  Pedlar 
have  it  full  in  the  stomach,  causing  him  to  lurch  for- 
ward slightly.  The  two  men,  cheek  to  cheek,  and  fore- 
arm against  forearm,  seemed  to  be  embracing  one 
another,  and  the  referee  ordered  them  apart  and 
walked  between  them.  Jef  tied  himself  into  a  knot, 
but  Pedlar  caught  him  on  the  chin,  and  imprisoned 


150  PEOPLE 

his  right  arm  under  his  own  left.  This  manoeuvre 
was  so  rapid  that  it  got  by  the  referee,  and  Jef,  stag- 
gering, received  Pedlar's  two  fists  in  quick  succession, 
drew  back  towards  his  corner,  and  put  his  gloves  up 
in  front  of  his  smiling  countenance.  Suddenly  he  bent 
over  again  to  receive  Pedlar's  attack,  but  the  gong 
sounded  the  end  of  the  round.  The  crowd  clapped 
vigorously,  and  a  lady  got  up  from  one  of  the  250- 
franc  chairs  to  wave  her  white  glove  at  Jef.  The 
seconds  applied  wet  sponges,  and  fanned  their  men 
with  towels,  as  they  sat  breathing  heavily,  with  their 
arms  stretched  out  along  the  ropes. 

A  great  buzzing  of  voices  rose  up  after  the  ap- 
plause; M.  Prat-Hugo  was  very  excited: 

"  Too  much  close  fighting.  The  referee  doesn't 
interfere  enough." 

This  was  the  opinion  of  Lord  Youngston,  who  began 
to  hold  forth  slowly  and  in  perfect  French: 

"  This  is  very  ugly!  The  Americans  have  debased 
the  noble  art  of  boxing.  Their  fighters  try  to  wrestle 
with  their  fists.  Old  prints  show  us  the  champions 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  with  their  ears  split  by  well- 
judged  blows  delivered  at  arm's  length.  In  the  reign 
of  Queen  Victoria  they  preferred  direct  blows,  aimed 
from  a  distance;  thrusts.  Boxing  is  the  play  of  the 
fists.  The  Americans  have  invented  in-fighting;  they 
clinch  and  pound  one  another.  Close  fighting,  with 
nothing  but  blows  with  the  bent  arm,  is  quite  un- 


BOXERS  151 

graceful.  It  isn't  Boxing!  In-fighting  is  to  boxing 
'what  the  knife  is  to  the  sword." 

One  of  Pedlar  Lawn's  trainers  was  talking  to  him 
in  a  low  voice.  The  boxer  leaned  his  smooth  white 
face  towards  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be  sneering. 

At  the  stroke  of  the  gong,  the  gladiators  stepped 
nimbly  to  the  centre  of  the  ring.  Upon  meeting  they 
took  positions  of  defence,  the  left  fist  advanced,  offer- 
ing a  threat  that  was  not  carried  out.  They  moved 
about  as  though  turning  on  the  same  axis,  and  their 
bodies  were  like  bent  bows  about  to  be  released.  They 
each  made  little  strategic  attacks,  always  dodged  by 
the  other,  and  no  blows  were  dealt.  The  crowd  roared 
out  its  impatience.  Then  Jef  stopped  smiling  and 
seemed  to  be  about  to  attack  in  earnest. 

Accustomed  to  this  facial  trick,  Pedlar  leapt  for- 
ward, but  Jef  made  a  sideways  movement  of  the  head 
from  the  exact  spot  where  the  blow  would  pass,  and 
replied  heavily  with  his  left  into  Pedlar's  stomach. 
Lord  Youngston  was  about  to  applaud  this  fine  feat, 
when  Pedlar  pitched  into  Jef  with  both  fists,  and  the 
two  hammered  one  another,  beating  the  floor  with  their 
heels.  The  crowd,  excited  by  such  brutal  procedure, 
thundered  its  approval.  Jef's  face  was  covered  with 
blood,  but  he  was  still  smiling,  as  he  sank  upon  one 
knee.  The  referee  counted  the  seconds,  and  the  lady 
with  white  gloves  leaned  forward  with  her  mouth  open. 
M.  Prat-Hugo  sat  with  his  knees  pressed  tight  to- 


152  PEOPLE 

gether,  biting  his  left  thumb-nail,  and  some  Americans 
in  evening  dress  cheered  the  man  who  was  wearing  the 
flag  of  their  country  about  his  waist. 

At  the  eighth  second,  Jef  got  up  and  drew  back, 
with  his  gloves  in  front  of  his  resigned  smile.  Pedlar, 
continuing  his  attack,  followed  him  closely,  and  his 
busy  fists  left  pink  marks  on  Jef's  skin.  The  gong 
sounded  just  as  his  back  touched  the  ropes. 

A  roar  of  applause  filled  the  amphitheatre  again, 
and  the  dust,  beaten  out  of  the  floor  by  the  stamping 
of  feet,  rose  up  like  mist  towards  the  arc-lights  above. 
The  two  gladiators  seated  themselves  again  in  the 
angles  formed  by  the  ropes,  laid  their  arms  along  the 
white  linen  casings,  and  submitted  themselves  breath- 
lessly to  the  ministrations  of  the  seconds,  who  squirted 
cold  water  upon  them  with  their  own  mouths.  Jef 
closed  his  eyes,  and  Mac  Ofcourse  rubbed  his  joints 
with  some  sort  of  resinous  ointment.  M.  Prat-Hugo 
was  beside  himself  with  enthusiasm: 

"  What  magnificent  fighting!  " 

Lord  Youngston  spoke  with  care: 

"  It  isn't  what  we  see  that  I  admire;  it's  the  fine 
head-work  behind  it  all!  The  Yankee  fights  with  his 
fists  only,  but  he's  playing  an  elaborate  game.  Pedlar 
Lawn  puts  too  much  drive  into  it,  and  loses  his  breath. 
I  can't  go  and  tell  him  this.  It  wouldn't  be  fair." 
Then  he  stated  one  of  the  laws  of  straight  fighting: 
"Let  the  men  fight  their  own  fight." 


BOXERS  153 

The  gong  brought  Jef  slowly  to  his  feet,  smiling 
tenaciously.  Pedlar's  white  face  accentuated  the  red- 
ness of  his  swollen  right  eyelid.  He  came  forward 
quickly,  with  the  idea  of  planting  his  right  firmly  over 
Jef 's  heart.  The  latter  took  it  with  his  elbow,  lowered 
just  in  time,  and,  seeing  Pedlar's  left  foot  between  his 
two  feet,  he  fixed  it  to  the  floor  with  his  right  one,  so 
as  to  pound  his  chin.  This  was  soon  stopped  by  the 
referee,  who  passed  between  them;  and  Pedlar,  far 
from  being  overwhelmed  by  it,  was  only  the  more 
anxious  for  his  revenge.  He  set  out  furiously  to  ob- 
tain it,  and  in  the  tight  knot  which  their  bodies  now 
made,  he  pounded  Jef's  face  with  his  head,  and  be- 
laboured his  stomach  with  his  elbow.  Jef  tried  to 
get  close  to  him  and  hold  down  his  arms,  after  each 
order  of  the  referee;  he  obeyed  these  and  left  his  man, 
but  then  pounced  back  upon  him.  They  kept  on 
giving  it  to  each  other  in  the  loins  with  the  right  fist, 
and  some  people  shouted  to  Pedlar: 

"  Break  away!  " 

He  tried  to,  but  failed,  always  persistently  hugged 
by  Jef,  who  managed  to  escape  Pedlar's  finishing 
stroke.  The  gong  sounded,  and  there  was  an  ova- 
tion for  Pedlar.  Jef's  eyes  were  closed,  and  he 
seemed  lifeless  in  the  hands  of  the  seconds,  who 
sponged  him  down  with  cold  water.  The  chests  of 
both  men  rose  and  fell  with  great  rapidity,  and 
Lord  Youngston  smiled  faintly  as  he  noticed  that 


154  PEOPLE 

Pedlar,  almost  victorious,  was  breathing  faster  than 
Jef. 

The  signal  brought  the  combatants  to  their  feet; 
the  seconds  sprayed  their  backs  with  water,  squirting 
it  from  their  mouths,  and  Jef  shook  his  shoulders  as 
though  it  had  waked  him  up.  Pedlar  was  upon  him 
in  a  jiffy,  raining  ineffectual  blows;  then  Jef  got  busy, 
and  the  two  men  closed  in  without  further  prelim- 
inary. Their  fists  struck  hard  at  close  range,  and 
there  was  no  drawing  back  or  lifting  of  shoulders  to 
show  that  either  of  them  was  getting  too  much  of  it. 
Pedlar's  rage  increased  as  he  watched  Jef's  smiling 
resignation,  for  he  could  not  accomplish  that  final 
stroke.  He  hammered  ceaselessly  with  his  right  and 
with  his  left:  then  suddenly,  both  arms  fell  to  his 
sides;  Jef,  quick  as  lightning,  had  drawn  back  and 
landed  him  one  under  the  jaw,  which  lifted  him  off 
the  floor,  and,  before  Pedlar  could  raise  his  arms  again, 
Jef  snapped  back  like  a  spring,  and  repeated  the  dose. 
Pedlar  fell  to  his  knees  and  the  referee  counted  the 
seconds  over  his  bent  head.  At  the  ninth,  he  stood 
up  and  the  crowd  cheered  wildly,  but,  stretching  out 
his  left,  he  backed  away  from  Jef  and  took  the  classic 
guard:  head  back,  right  fist  over  the  pit  of  his 
stomach,  and  left  held  shoulder  high.  Jef  smiled, 
seemingly  afraid  to  drive  home  his  victory,  and 
Pedlar  rushed  at  him,  but  Jef  plunged  beneath  the 
wildly  waving  arms  of  his  desperate  adversary  and 


BOXERS  155 

gave  it  to  him  again  under  the  jaw.  Then,  with  his 
chin  pushed  out,  and  breathing  so  heavily  that  it 
seemed  to  burst  like  a  bomb  in  his  mouth,  he  struck 
like  lightning  with  his  left,  through  the  waving  arms, 
and  arrived  with  the  whole  weight  of  his  body:  one 
hundred  and  forty-six  pounds  five  ounces  on  Pedlar's 
chest.  The  vanquished  Englishman,  deprived  of  his 
last  breath,  toppled  over  flat  on  his  back,  with  his 
arms  stretched  out,  and  Jef  stepped  back  and  leaned 
upon  the  ropes,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  he 
has  done  his  work.  The  prostrate  body  in  the  middle 
of  the  ring  looked  like  a  white  crucifixion.  The 
referee  counted  the  tenth  second,  and  the  smooth- 
faced Americans  in  evening  dress  leapt  from  their 
seats,  shouting  vociferously  with  their  big  mouths,  and 
pushed  their  way  roughly  towards  the  ring,  where  Jef's 
seconds  were  holding  him  triumphantly  on  their  shoul- 
ders. Two  of  the  most  luxuriously  dressed  among 
them  added  their  support  to  the  victor;  and  the 
woman  with  the  white  gloves  threw  kisses  at  him,  and 
let  out  little  squeals  of  delight,  for  she  had  put  her 
money  on  him.  Amid  the  uproar  of  hand-clapping, 
yelling,  and  stamping  of  feet,  Lord  Youngston  held 
forth  to  M.  Prat-Hugo: 

"  Jef  let  Pedlar  have  too  much  confidence  in  him- 
self, and  this  confidence  lost  him  the  fight.  A  man 
must  never  imagine  too  soon  that  he  is  going  to  win, 
for  it  sets  the  mind  at  rest;  and  a  man  who  makes 


156  PEOPLE 

no  mental  effort  is  lost.  Jef  allowed  his  face  to  get 
knocked  about,  in  order  to  have  a  triumphant  man 
before  him,  and  nothing  comes  to  grief  so  quickly  as 
a  triumphant  man.  He  has  not  only  a  physical  beat- 
ing to  undergo,  but  also  the  blighting  of  his  hopes. 
Jef  used  his  powers  of  endurance  in  dealing  with 
Pedlar,  and  it  was  a  mental  victory.  After  the  second 
blow  he  had  only  Pedlar's  body  to  push  about.  The 
best  men  never  jump  to  victorious  conclusions;  and 
anyone  who  decides  that  the  fight  is  his  is  done  for. 
Man  has  no  worse  enemy  than  contentment." 

Seated  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  howling  country- 
men, Jef  basked  in  the  brief  and  furious  glory  ac- 
corded to  prize-fighters,  and  the  great  electric  globes 
shone  down  upon  him  thoughtfully,  like  the  stars. 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES 

His  Royal  Highness  Gaston,  due  d'Orleans,  was  on 
board  his  yacht  La  Maroussia.  It  was  at  Seville,  near 
the  decagonal  Torre  del  Oro,  tied  up  to  the  Guadal- 
quivir orange  docks.  The  water  grew  bluer  as  the 
sun  rose  in  the  heavens,  and  at  noon  the  flaming  river 
was  like  enamel  in  a  hot  furnace.  The  palm-trees, 
flourishing  beneath  the  pitiless  glare  which  drove 
everyone  to  shelter,  only  offered  little  patches  of 
shade,  but  in  the  evening  their  shadows  reached  far 
out  over  the  tired  water. 

In  the  calle  de  las  Sierpes,  Pierre  Roumieu  had  a 
French  pastry  shop,  where  fancy  cakes,  with  or  with- 
out icing,  could  be  had,  and  there  he  learned  Spanish: 
Bunuelos,  Rejrescos.  He  loved  to  sit  by  the  water's 
edge,  when  his  day's  work  was  finished,  and  the  pros- 
titutes who  came  over  the  Triana  bridge  smiled  at 
him,  for  he  brought  them  stale  bread  and  other 
leavings: 

"  What  you  got  for  me?  "  And  he  replied  with  an 
exaggerated  description  of  the  surprises  he  had  in  his 
pockets  for  them  all. 

He  couldn't  legally  go  back  into  France,  for  the 
157 


158  PEOPLE 

simple  reason/ — according  to  his  own  story, — that  he 
was  a  deserter.  But  there  were  other  things  that  peo- 
ple didn't  know  about. 

He  wore  the  tight  trousers  of  a  torero,  but  his  jacket 
was  French,  and  the  embroidered  plastron  covering 
his  well-developed  chest  kept  his  beautiful  red  satin 
necktie  in  place,  from  his  soft  white  collar  down  to 
his  belt.  For  the  women  of  Triana  he  was  Andalusian, 
but  he  looked  it  only  when  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  In 
spite  of  his  numerous  amusements,  he  admitted  to 
only  one  rather  unobliging  friend.  For  every  step 
ahead,  she  took  three  backwards,  especially  if  one 
begged  her  to  hurry:  a  fine  mule,  with  red  rosettes, 
who  carried  oranges  down  to  the  docks.  She  always 
planted  herself  in  front  of  Roumieu's  shop,  and  stayed 
there  until  he  brought  out  her  afternoon  tea  of  almond 
paste. 

Roumieu  looked  as  though  he  might  be  a  cousin  of 
Lopito,  the  mule-driver,  on  account  of  his  flat  hat  and 
his  habit  of  shaving  Spanish  fashion,  but  they  were 
alike  only  when  silent.  When  the  Andalusian  spoke, 
his  crooked  mouth  moved  in  an  otherwise  inflexibly 
pious  Catholic  face.  Roumieu,  who  came  from  the 
department  of  the  Var,  always  kept  a  smile  ready,  as 
though  it  were  just  under  his  skin. 

The  horn  handle  of  a  steel  blade  was  sticking  out 
of  the  mule-driver's  belt.  Roumieu  said  that 
this  capable  knife  had  put  an  end  to  Domingo 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  159 

Lesdeno's  earning  four  pesetas  a  day  by  killing, 
skinning,  and  selling  one  bullock,  six  sheep,  and 
twenty-four  young  goats.  No  one  knew  the  beginning 
of  this  terrible  affair,  but  the  result  had  been  seen: 
Lopito  had  pinioned  the  butcher's  arm  to  the  door, 
and  then,  in  order  to  commit  further  outrage,  he  had 
withdrawn  his  knife.  Covering  the  crucified  man's 
face  with  his  cloak,  he  had  disembowelled  him,  as 
easily  as  a  pious  woman  opens  her  prayer-book  with 
a  hairpin.  Lifting  out  the  intestines,  and  putting 
them  into  a  handkerchief,  Lopito  had  said: 

"Saint  Peter  is  well  avenged!  " 

Roumieu  was  great  friends  with  this  good  Christian, 
who  was  grateful  to  the  Orleans  -family  for  the  job 
of  carting  their  oranges  down  to  the  docks  from  the 
park  of  San  Telmo — a  little  business  for  which  the 
due  de  Montpensier  had  been  nicknamed:  El 
naranjero. 

The  mule-driver  pointed  to  ;the  yacht  and  said:; 

"Elrey." 

The  pastry-cook  agreed. 

"  Sobre  el  agua" 

The  due  d'Orleans  came  to  see  his  grandmother, 
— the  duchesse  de  Montpensier,  Infanta  of  Spain, — 
invested  with  many-coloured  robes  in  her  devotional 
palacio  by  the  Abbe  Juan  Episcopo.  This  dignitary 
reeked  with  tobacco,  and  had  taken  to  live  with  him, 
ostensibly  from  the  highest  motives,  a  broad-backed, 


160  PEOPLE 

dark-haired  wench  whose  skin  at  least  was  very 
Catholic,  owing  to  the  rubbing  of  scapularies. 

Dislike  of  travelling  alone  obliged  His  Highness 
Gaston  d'Orleans  to  surround  himself  with  lively 
women,  to  whom,  he  offered  riding  as  a  change  from 
yachting;  and  this  was  why,  on  that  April  day,  at 
the  time  of  the  Fina,  he  foun4  himself  with  a  broken 
leg  beneath  his  horse,  to  the  horror  of  his  friend.  She 
had  to  dismount  from  her  own  horse  without  help,  and 
send  forth  scream  after  scream  in  her  beautiful 
operatic  soprano;  and  her  distress  over  His  injured 
Majesty  lasted  for  a  long  time  in  the  open  prairie 
land,  with  its  cactus  and  vast  unbroken  stretches. 
She  dropped  all  her  combs,  and  shrieked  and  per- 
spired until  the  peasants  came  to  bear  away  the 
injured  King  upon  a  stretcher. 

The  fact  that  he  was  taken  to  a  hotel  in  Madrid, 
and  not  to  the  family  palace,  was  an  offence  to  his 
grandmother,  whose  priests  and  chamberlains  pre- 
vented her  from  visiting  her  grandson  in  such  unbe- 
fitting surroundings.  An  infanta  of  Spain  could  not 
risk  meeting,  at  a  public  tavern,  ladies  who  went  on 
pleasure  cruises,  even  though  they  did  only  stand  at 
the  edge  of  the  bed. 

The  departure  was  finally  arranged,  after  much 
palavering  on  the  part  of  important  personages,  and 
His  Highness  Gaston  was  carried  to  San  Telmo, 
where  he  consoled  himself,  by  consuming  souffle 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  161 

potatoes,  for  the  reproach  that  his  conduct  in  semana 
santa  was  too  scandalously  vulgar.  He  remembered 
his  royal  destiny,  and  stuck  a  red  carnation  between 
two  of  the  toes  of  his  incapacitated  foot. 

Pierre  Roumieu  supplied  His  bruised  Majesty  with 
pastry,  and  he  became  friends  with  M.  Jean  Baudet, 
who  made  a  good  thing  out  of  his  job  of  valet  to  His 
Highness.  M.  Jean  did  not  forget  Pierre,  and  the 
pastry-cook,  who  knew  his  way  about,  helped  him 
to  speak  to  the  pretty  ladies  who  cried  "  Nino! 
Chiquillo!  "  from  behind  the  wrought  iron  grilles  of 
the  houses,  where  there  were  gay  carnations  on  the 
window  sills  and  in  the  black  hair  of  the  girls  smok- 
ing cigarettes.  All  those  who  earned  their  living  in 
Seville  knew  the  yacht;  and,  with  bent  forefingers, 
and  eyes  that  twinkled  beneath  their  shawls,  the 
dancers  from  the  Place  San  Fernando,  clacking  their 
castanets  and  biting  the  stem  of  a  flower,  called  out 
for  el  rey.  Other  more  determined  women  came  down 
to  the  docks  and  loudly  demanded  their  money  from 
the  licentious  King  of  France  in  his  palatial  craft 
that  floated  among  the  rotten  oranges  on  the 
Guadalquivir. 

M.  Jean  broke  off  his  acquaintance  with  Roumieu 
as  soon  as  he  could,  and  attended  to  the  provisioning 
of  the  yacht  unaided.  The  pastry-cook  looked  for  him 
every  evening,  in  order  to  administer  a  well-deserved 
reproach.  Last  night  there  was  a  pearly  white  ring 


162  PEOPLE 

around  the  moon,  and  I  met  him  in  the  streets,  vainly 
searching. 

"  The  due  d'Orleans,"  he  said,  "  looks  like  the  due 
de  Bordeaux."  And  he  sang, 

"  Le  due  de  Bordeaux 
Ressemble  a  son  pere,, 
Son  pere  a  so.  mere, 
Sa  mere  a  mon  dos," 

as  we  walked  along  together  to  No.  8,  calle  Santa 
Maria,  to  see  Mme.  Roustan,  of  the  French  colony. 
This  lady,  who  smoked  a  great  deal  and  drank  quite 
enough,  had  acquired  strong  Catholic  beliefs  and  a 
taste  of  uncleanliness  from  her  long  stay  in  Spain. 
The  tips  of  her  ringers  touched  Holy  Water  and  no 
other,  but  she  promised  to  find,  in  that  bathless  town, 
some  white-skinned  girls  who  washed  themselves  from 
head  to  foot,  English  fashion. 

Encarnacion,  a  terra-cotta  enameller  from  La 
Cartuja,  spoke  to  Pierre  caressingly: 

" Hijo  de  mi  alma"  She  was  sitting  on  the  wooden 
staircase,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her 
flower-decked  head  in  her  hands.  On  the  cool  stones 
of  the  courtyard,  her  feet  were  beating  the  rhythm  of 
the  dance  she  had  just  finished.  Then  her  comrade 
Concepcion  came  down  the  stairs,  clapping  her  hands 
together  like  cymbals,  and  threw  us  the  flowers  from 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  163 

her  hair  and  some  leaves  from  the  shrubs  in  the  court. 
Pierre  swore,  and  she  took  some  water  from  the  foun- 
tain. Then  she  held  up  the  lamp  to  light  the  stairway 
for  us. 

They  were  proud  of  their  dainty  chemises  which  had 
been  worn  by  Mme.  la  comtesse  de  Paris  at  her 
chateau  at  San  Lucar.  In  spite  of  his  housemaids, 
His  Highness  sold  the  odds  and  ends  from  the  ward- 
robe to  old-clothes  dealers  in  Seville. 

Mme.  Roustan  brought  in  some  anchovies  in  salt- 
petre from  La  Manzanilla,  and  delighted  Pierre  with 
her  maledictions: 

"What  a  filthy  brute  to  have  for  a  king!  " 

Suddenly  she  began  to  deliver  herself  on  the  subject 
of  the  Orleans  family: 

"  The  only  thing  that  interests  them  is  their  own 
gain.  What  they  did  in  1872  was  nothing  but  that: 
to  ask  for  sixty  millions  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  country  had  to  pay  five  thousand  millions.  They 
said  to  themselves,  '  France  won't  be  swallowed  up 
without  us.'  They  couldn't  get  what  they  wanted  be- 
fore the  Prussians,  but  they  got  it  right  away  after- 
wards. I  gave  all  the  wine  I  had  left  to  the  soldiers 
of  my  country.  When  the  due  de  Montpensier  fought 
here  with  Henri  de  Bourbon,  he  did  it  because  he 
knew  he  would  gain  by  his  death.  The  Orleans  let 
the  Bourbon  die  like  a  dog  at  the  Carabanchel  duelling 
ground." 


164  PEOPLE 

Encarnacion  clacked  her  castanets  and  sang: 

"  Los  ninos  de  Carabanchel." 

Her  head  moved  as  though  she  were  dancing,  and 
Pierre  took  down  the  guitar. 

The  staff  of  the  watchman  came  tapping  along  on 
the  pavement,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  gave  one  a 
feeling  of  tranquillity: 

"  Go  to  sleep,  it's  one  o'clock." 

Encarnacion  looked  up  at  the  sky,  that  sparkled 
with  diamonds,  then  she  yawned  and  smiled  at  Pierre 
childishly: 

"  Won't  you  sleep  while  I  sleep?  " 

On  the  second  of  February,  1897,  the  Spanish  artil- 
lery fired  off  a  salute  in  the  passages  of  Las  Delicias 
for  the  death  of  Her  Royal  Highness  Madame  la 
duchesse  de  Montpensier.  The  olive-skinned  gunners 
switched  the  children  with  mule-drivers'  whips  for 
coming  too  near,  and  stopped  another  crowd  of  chil- 
dren following  a  cow  destined  for  the  butcher's  knife. 
The  beast  was  being  prodded  with  pointed  sticks  and 
the  blood  flowed.  A  young  gunner  who  was  more 
thrilled  by  being  an  espartero  than  with  the  order  to 
"Fire!  "  shouted  to  the  children:  " Anda!  Hombre! 
La  Muertet" 

Encarnacion  glided  by  like  a  garlanded  ship,  with 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  165 

her  mantilla  caught  up  on  her  high  comb,  and  flowers 
in  her  hair.  Que  graciosa!  She  gave  us  the  greeting 
of  her  country: 

"  God  be  with  you." 

The  Abbe  Juan  Episcopo  came  running  up  to  them; 
the  guns  had  been  fired  too  soon.  Oxygen-tanks  were 
giving  the  Infanta  a  few  more  hours  of  suffering,  and 
she  was  just  conscious  enough  to  speak,  when  she 
heard  the  noise  of  the  firing: 

"  Not  yet." 

Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  her  last  illness.  Her 
recovery  from  it  had  begun  with  astonishment  at  see- 
ing so  many  empty  drawers.  The  head  housemaid, 
Teodora,  had  been  obliged  to  reply: 

"  Madame  la  comtesse  de  Paris  thought  that  God 
would  call  her  to  him." 

The  gunners  were  now  able  to  repeat  their  salute, 
and  since  the  Duchess  had  desired  to  be  buried  as  a 
nun,  her  corpse,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  order, 
was  clothed  in»  brown  cloth,  and  a  tight  white  cap  was 
placed  on  the  wizened  head.  Then  it  was  laid  upon 
the  flagging  of  the  palace  chapel  as  though  the  Infanta 
had  fallen  there,  stone-dead. 

The  humility  of  her  burial  was  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  piety  and  simplicity  of  this  great  lady,  and 
the  unpopularity  of  her  husband,  prince  d'Orleans, 
was  obliterated,  in  this  country  of  beggars,  by  en- 
thusiastic praises  for  the  Benefactress, 


166  PEOPLE 

The  louse-covered  gipsy-women  who  camped  at  La 
Macarena  called  her  Nuestra  Madre,  and  when  she 
passed  by  they  crossed  themselves  with  one  hand  and 
stretched  out  the  other. 

tying  there  upon  the  stone  floor,  she  seemed  to 
have  grown  taller,  and  the  flowing  line  of  her  slender 
body  was  broken  only  in  two  places:  at  the  crucifix 
clasped  on  her  breast  by  fingers  which  bore  a  single 
silver  ring,  and  at  her  nose  which  was  sharply  attenu- 
ated by  Death. 

Servants  kept  the  people  in  order  as  they  filed  past. 
There  was  Mme.  Roustan,  then  Encarnacion  with  lace 
at  her  wrists  from  the  dead  woman's  drawers,  and 
some  gipsy-men  and  toreros,  then  the  children  who 
had  wearied  of  plaguing  the  cow,  and  the  officer  who 
had  ordered  the  premature  salute. 

Rows  of  candles  burned  upon  the  altars. 

The  royal  will  contained  other  clauses  besides  the 
one  concerning  the  manner  of  burial.  Money  had 
been  left  to  the  Holy  Church  at  San  Telmo,  and  there 
was  great  perturbation  among  the  members  of  the 
family.  Representations  were  made  at  once  to  the 
ecclesiastical  authorities  regarding  the  illegality  of  this 
attempt  upon  the  Orleans  fortune. 

The  Archbishop  gave  them  his  blessing,  and  the 
family,  with  a  great  appearance  of  filial  affection, 
began  to  look  piously  around  for  mementoes  of  their 
grandmother.  It  was  easy  to  see  why  the  silver  ring 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  167 

was  the  only  thing  left  on  her  hands:  the  finger  would 
have  had  to  be  cut  off  to  get  it.  The  great  wrought 
iron  grille  at  the  palace  entrance,  with  its  polished 
copper  knobs,  filled  the  princes  with  emotion:  "It  is 
an  heirloom!  " 

Their  affection  for  their  grandmother  was  more 
easily  satisfied  in  the  Salon  de  Columnas,  which  was 
full  of  heavy  objects  of  priceless  beauty  and  composi- 
tion. These  were  carried  out  with  an  agility  quite 
remarkable  in  people  who  were  not  movers  by  trade. 
Who  got  the  big  ivory  Christ?  Under  whose  arms 
would  those  valuable  vases  disappear?  And  which 
member  of  this  noble  race  would  take  those  gem-set 
swords  from  the  armoury,  forgetful  of  their  glorious 
blades? 

The  nail  from  the  Holy  Cross,  a  mere  piece  of  iron 
in  a  crystal  case,  remained  untouched,  as  well  as  the 
Pope's  white  cap,  obtained  by  the  Duchess.  She  had 
knelt  before  him  as  a  pilgrim,  and,  after  a  handsome 
gift  to  the  Holy  Church,  had  asked:  "Might  I  have 
a  souvenir  of  Your  Holiness?  "  Her  reward  had  been 
this  thing  worth  thirty  sous. 

The  housemaids  prayed  and  wept,  and  they  bowed 
low  to  Amelie  of  Portugal,  who  walked  past  with  her 
head  erect.  Her  hands  were  empty,  for  she  was  a 
queen.  Then  the  chapel  bell  put  an  end  to  the  pillag- 
ing, and  the  priests,  beneficiaries  under  the  dead 
woman's  will,  proceeded  with  the  funeral  service,  turn- 


i68  PEOPLE 

ing  the  Holy  Sacrament  towards  the  family,  who 
piously  inclined  their  calculating  heads. 

When  the  due  d'Orleans  was  well  again,  he  met  his 
helpful  friend,  the  singer,  at  the  Savoy  Hotel  in 
London.  His  relish  for  her  and  patatas, — now  be- 
come souffle  potatoes, — kept  him  hi  good  spirits,  but 
Jean  Baudet  complained  on  behalf  of  His  Highness 
that  they  were  not  as  nicely  puffed  out  as  at  San 
Telmo,  because  they  were  partially  cooked  long  hi 
advance. 

The  stifling  hotel  kitchen  was  on  the  same  floor  as 
the  cool  restaurant,  and  when  their  work  was  done 
the  weary  cooks  regaled  themselves  by  peeping  through 
the  cracks  in  the  screens  at  the  pompous  lords  and 
their  dazzling  companions  enjoying  their  dinner.  His 
Highness's  blond  beard  was  very  noticeable  with  so 
many  clean-shaven  faces  about  him. 

The  old  glutton  had  to  suspend  his  preparations  for 
the  throne  to  receive  an  agent  of  the  due  d'Aumale, 
the  bearer  of  an  order  to  break  with  his  singer,  under 
penalty  of  being  disinherited.  In  the  kitchen,  the 
howler  predicted  what  would  happen.  This  well- 
educated  Frenchman,  who  had  come  down  to  the  job 
of  howler  in  a  cosmopolitan  restaurant,  had  lost  his 
money,  but  not  his  experience  or  his  good-nature.  He 
bet  ten  to  one  with  Raymond,  the  old  white-bearded 
larder-man : 

"  The  duke  will  get  rid  of  his  lady  in  the  presence 


A  BOURBON'S  PLEASURES  169 

of  M.  d'Aumale's  messenger,  and  without  her  he  would 
have  been  a  dead  man,  grilled  by  the  sun  on  that 
-Spanish  prairie.  He  won't  hesitate!  When  an 
Orleans  has  to  choose  between  money  and  the  well- 
being  of  a  woman  or  of  his  country,  it  is  always  the 
money." 

He  won,  and  the  following  night  the  cantatrice 
stood  outside  the  door,  which  had  been  slammed  in 
her  face,  and  hammered  it  like  a  street  urchin:  a 
fitting  reply  to  the  princely  treatment  she  had  re- 
ceived. The  Swiss  manager  came  to  see  who  was 
there,  taking  his  time  as  usual,  and  told  the  lady  to 
be  off  at  once. 

The  next  morning,  old  R'aymond  threw  off  the  fol- 
lowing opinions,  while  engaged  in  his  noisy  job  of 
splitting  bones: 

"  Vive  la  Commune!  She  was  a  nice  little  thing, 
and  she  gave  what  he  asked  for.  I'm  poor,  but  I'm 
always  polite  with  women.  We  can't  all  be  Orleanses. 
Oh,  what  a  lot  of  tails  there  are  that  never  get  kicked! " 


THE  JOY  BOYS 

ON  the  third  of  October,  at  ten-thirty  in  the  morning, 
a  hundred  men  of  the  26th  Light  Infantry,  resting 
their  rifles  upon  their  green  epaulets,  went  into  48  ter, 
Boulevard  de  Bercy.  It  was  the  freight  depot  of  the 
P.  L.  M.  Railway.  Ten  minutes  after  their  rapid 
entrance,  fifty  foot-solders  with  polished  buttons  came 
in  and  piled  their  rifles  against  the  railing.  Behind 
it  some  dray-horses  were  struggling  to  keep  their  feet 
on  the  slimy  cobblestones.  Twelve  surly  municipal 
guards  came  next,  looking  enormous  with  their  shakos' 
and  their  thick  covers  slung  over  their  shoulders;  then 
twenty  policemen  from  the  Twelfth  Arrondissement 
took  up  random  positions  on  the  pavement. 

People  stopped,  and  asked: 

"  What's  going  on?  " 

"  It's  the  Joy  Boys  goin'  off,"  said  a  barrel-maker 
in  a  jute  apron.  "  That's  not  like  it  used  to  be.  They 
used  to  bring  'em  in  a  bunch  from  the  Reuilly  bar- 
racks, with  fixed  bayonets.  They  made  more  noise 
'n  a  lot  o'  stewed  women.  Now,  they  comes  one  by 
one.  It  keeps  'em  calm.  Those  guys  won't  make  no 
noise;  they'll  kick  up  no  fuss." 

170 


THE  JOY  BOYS  171 

Uninterested,  he  went  off  to  his  work,  and  the  other 
people  in  the  street,  being  of  the  working  class  too, 
had  no  time  to  stand  watching  for  long,  so  after  a 
moment  or  two  passed  down  the  boulevard.  At  this 
point,  it  sinks  to  a  low  level  between  the  pavements, 
and  is  crossed  by  an  iron  bridge  just  to  the  left  of  the 
station  entrance.  The  noise  of  the  trains,  running 
over  the  joints  in  the  tracks,  drowned  the  words  of 
three  journalists  standing  near  the  policemen.  But 
no  one  wanted  to  hear  what  they  were  saying. 

One  of  the  reporters,  who  had  a  brown  goatee, 
spotted  the  first  Joy  Boy  with  a  friend  whose  white 
knapsack  weighed  down  one  of  his  shoulders  and  kept 
knocking  against  his  back.  When  the  recruit  spied  the 
policemen,  he  shied,  and  turned  away  his  bull-dog  jaw. 
Then  the  two  sour-looking  individuals  padded  off  in 
their  blue-laced  slippers  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Heads  downward,  they  went  to  console  themselves 
with  a  glass  of  white  wine,  with  other  Joy  Boys  and 
their  companions,  who  were  noiselessly  consuming 
small  bitter  drinks  at  a  nearby  table. 

A  boy  in  a  blue  smock,  with  eyes  open  and  mouth 
closed,  sat  stupidly  between  two  women,  whose  short 
hair  proved  that  they  had  just  come  out  of  the  hos- 
pital. Near  him  sat  a  clownish-looking  fellow  who 
seemed  to  be  in  a  terrible  temper.  He  wore  a  black 
jersey,  and  had  buttoned  his  fur-collared  overcoat 
across  his  shoulders.  A  dark-haired  woman  in  black 


i?2  PEOPLE 

silk  sat  beside  him,  and  kept  their  two  glasses  full? 
and  her  face,  which  already  betrayed  weariness  with 
her  obvious  occupation,  grew  paler  at  the  thought  of 
the  impending  separation.  Her  lover  had  his  arm 
around  her  neck,  and  his  big  idle  hand  hung  down 
over  her  ample  bosom. 

In  front  of  the  next  restaurant,  another  group  oc- 
cupied a  table  soaked  with  the  wine  spilling  con- 
stantly from  the  glasses  in  their  trembling  hands.  An 
old  woman,  and  three  younger  ones  from  a  work-room, 
faced  four  men  whose  elbows  were  solidly  planted 
upon  the  liquid  surface  of  the  table.  One  of  the  men, 
in  a  blue  ironworker's  smock,  but  yellow  shoes,  was 
softly  playing  an  accordion,  and  the  old  woman's  tears 
fell  rapidly  as  she  listened  to  it.  The  younger 
women's  eyes  were  red,  and  they  hung  their  heads 
dolefully. 

Two  light  infantrymen  brought  in  the  canteens  of 
their  squad  to  be  filled  with  wine,  and  a  tall  man  with 
grey  hair,  carrying  a  brand  new  valise,  offered  to  treat 
them  to  coffee  if  they  would  look  after  the  youngster 
with  him: 

"  I  wish  you'd  take  this  lad  inside." 

The  soldiers  stopped  corking  the  cloth-covered  can- 
teens, and  looked  at  the  youth:  voluptuous  pink  on 
his  round  cheeks;  brown  eyes,  lengthened  out  by  blue- 
pencilled  lines  at  the  outer  corners;  thick  lips;  and  a 
receding  chin.  He  was  seated  at  a  table,  drinking, 


THE  JOY  BOYS  173 

with  a  little  brunette,  who  was  smiling  the  fixed,  stupid 
smile  of  a  timid  child. 

"  Sure  thing.  He  better  go  in,"  said  one  of  the  sol- 
diers. "  They're  called  for,  any  time  before  ten.  It's 
striking  now." 

The  tall  man's  head  just  missed  the  gas-fixture  as 
he  turned  to  call: 

"Come  along,  Maurice!  " 

Maurice  hesitated;  he  was  listening  to  the  rest  of 
the  recruits,  whose  despair  had  not  been  mitigated  by 
the  wine  they  had  drunk: 

"  It's  yer  last  throw,  young  fella." 

But  he  went  off  in  spite  of  them,  for  the  little 
brunette,  still  smiling  timidly,  had  given  him  a 
shove. 

Fresh  tables  were  being  arranged  on  the  pavement, 
for  the  expected  crowd  of  gloomy  Joy  Boys  and  their 
dismal  companions.  No  laughter  was  to  be  heard 
anywhere,  and  the  policemen  walked  ba:k  and  forth 
like  watch-dogs  guarding  a  pack  of  taiTjd  wolves. 

The  tall  man  stooped  to  say  good-bye,  near  the 
bench  where  the  reporters  waited  in  vain  for  some- 
thing sensational  to  happen.  One  of  them,  who  was 
wearing  a  green  felt  hat,  attempted  to  interview 
him: 

"  Your  son  doesn't  look  as  if  he  belonged  here." 

"  He  isn't  my  son.  His  mother  asked  me  to  bring 
him  here.  He  had  meningitis  when  he  was  a  child, 


174  PEOPLE 

and  now  when  he  takes  a  drink  he  goes  completely 
off  his  head.  I  wish  he'd  go  in;  I've  got  to  be  at  the 
Gare  du  Nord  at  eleven." 

The  reporter  and  the  boy  with  the  pencilled  eye- 
lids looked  each  other  over.  They  both  had  the  same 
insolent  expression,  and  were  dressed  with  equal 
flashiness.  The  reporter  wore  a  red  cravat  and  a 
checked  shirt,  wishing  to  be  taken  for  a  sportsman, 
and  somehow  one  had  an  undefinable  impression  of 
their  similarity.  The  youth  addressed  the  journalist 
in  the  dialect  of  his  forebears,  as  though  the  latter 
were  claiming  relationship: 

"  None  of  your  nonsense.    I've  worked  for  Moray." 

The  reporter  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  what  he  was 
talking  about,  but  laughed,  nevertheless,  for  his  calling 
obliged  him  to  wear  the  mask  of  infinite  knowledge. 

"  I  believe  you've  been  to  number  forty-seven,  down 
the  boulevard!  "  exclaimed  the  Joy  Boy. 

The  man  who  had  to  be  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  at 
eleven  continued  his  elucidation  of  this  extraordinary 
personality: 

"  When  he  has  'em  like  that,  he's  sure  to  get  into 
some  sort  of  a  mess.  He's  had  four  months  twice, 
for  getting  into  scraps,  and  there  were  two  years  when 
he  had  to  live  away  from  home.  It'll  make  a  man 
of  him  to  go  out  there.  Go  on  in,  Maurice.  Your 
time's  up." 

"  We'll  meet  again,"  said  Maurice,  "  when  the  class 


THE  JOY  BOYS  175 

comes  back."  And  shouldering  his  valise,  he  handed 
his  papers  to  a  non-commissioned  officer  standing  at 
the  entrance. 

A  good-looking  youth,  elegantly  dressed, — a  neces- 
sary requisite  for  those  who  wished  to  make  use  of 
women, — passed  by,  arm  in  arm  with  a  girl  who  car- 
ried his  knapsack;  then  two  young  men  with  their  two 
companions,  four  abreast.  The  women  would  have 
consented  to  anything,  and  their  bodies  could  be 
readily  noted  beneath  carefully  chosen  dresses.  The 
dragging  steps  of  their  escorts  at  an  early  hour,  and 
the  smartness  of  their  get-up,  proclaimed  the  lazy  life 
of  kept  men.  This  care  in  dressing  showed  the  weak 
point  in  their  characters;  one  would  have  easily  taken 
young  men,  in  blue  smocks  like  theirs,  for  honest 
workmen  and  good  fellows,  but  the  working  clothes 
always  had  a  foundation  of  buttoned  shoes. 

An  old  policeman,  No.  256  Xllth,  undertook  to 
explain  politely  to  the  Joy  Boys  that  the  time  for 
parting  had  come.  He  succeeded  with  five  of  them, 
who  waved  their  good-byes  and  disappeared  behind 
the  line  of  soldiers.  A  gang  of  sewer-men  emerged 
from  a  nearby  man-hole;  their  feet  were  wet  and 
heavy,  and  they  came  slowly  to  positions  of  rest;  one 
hand  upon  their  dripping  scrapers,  and  the  other  hold- 
ing little  iron  lamps  without  chimneys.  They  formu- 
lated the  people's  mistrust  of  law-courts: 

"There's  guys  has  done  enough  to  deserve  bein' 


176  PEOPLE 

sent  off,  but  they  don't  get  'em.  And  the  ones  that 
goes  ain't  done  half  as  much." 

"  And  what  do  us  fellas  get  for  our  hard  workin'?  " 
said  the  last  of  the  gang,  drawing  an  unexplained 
parallel  between  his  own  misfortunes  and  those  of  the 
Joy  Boys.  Then,  realizing  that  the  minutes  were 
flying,  they  walked  off  to  their  unpleasant  work. 

The  journalists  put  their  heads  together,  and 
launched  forth  upon  a  lively  discussion;  they  talked 
at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  desiring  to  be  heard  above 
the  noise  of  the  trains  clattering  over  the  bridge.  One 
pale  young  man,  with  a  callous  spot  on  his  nose  where 
his  glasses  rested,  squinted  his  tired  eyes  and  de- 
clared: 

"  France  is  in  a  bad  way.  In  order  to  strengthen 
the  municipal  forces,  a  law  was  passed  on  March  21, 
1905,  which  provides  that  only  men  who  have  been 
in  prison  for  at  least  six  months,  one  or  more  sen- 
tences, can  be  sent  to  the  African  Battalion." 

A  travelling  salesman  put  down  his  sample-case  and 
complained: 

"It's  shameful!  My  son's  finished  all  his  studies, 
and  now  he's  garrisoned  at  Nancy  with  a  lot  of 
mackerels.  A  nice  thing  for  parents  to  have  their 
only  son  landed  into  a  crowd  like  that,  after  all  the 
sacrifices  we've  made  to  get  him  a  decent  education!  " 

"It's  because  he's  your  only  son,"  said  the  young 
man  with  the  bad  eyes;  "  those  mackerels  take  the 
place  of  the  brothers  you  didn't  give  him." 


THE  JOY  BOYS  177 

Another  of  the  journalists  pulled  vigorously  at  his 
little  brown  beard,  as  if  he  wished  to  ring  a  bell  to 
announce  this  observation: 

"What's  the  difference  between  a  boy  of  the  mid- 
dle classes  who  enlists  in  the  Hussars  because  he's 
robbed  his  father,  and  a  Joy  Boy  who  gets  sent  off 
to  Africa  for  letting  himself  get  pinched,  doing  the 
same  thing  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning?  " 

"  He  doesn't  belong  to  the  family,"  replied  the 
travelling  salesman. 

A  great  flat  dray  came  lumbering  along  the  uneven 
cobbles,  and  a  little  hand-truck  which  had  been  in- 
securely loaded  on  to  it  fell  into  the  street.  From 
this  crowd,  who  were  supposed  to  be  known  for  their 
alacrity  to  do  harm,  ten  men  leapt  forward  to  pick 
it  up  and  replace  it  on  the  dray,  thus  saving  the 
horses  the  trouble  of  stopping  and  starting  again  on 
the  slimy  stones. 

The  journalists  at  last  began  to  show  signs  of 
rejoicing: 

"Ah!     Now  they're  coming!  " 

From  the  boulevard  came  the  sound  of  Bruant's 
song: 

"  C'est  nous  les  joyeux  ..."  And  they  surged 
up  over  the  empty  pavement,  dancing  and  gesticulat- 
ing. A  little  old  woman  was  being  dragged  along 
between  two  of  them,  and  their  crazy  steps  shook  the 
spectacles  that  she  was  trying  to  keep  in  place  with 


178  PEOPLE 

her  bent  fingers.  Necks,  stretched  out  by  the  effort 
of  shouting,  were  often  surmounted  by  heads  that 
looked  like  animals':  anywhere  from  a  rabbit's  nose 
to  a  boar's  snout.  A  major  led  the  crowd,  moving 
along  on  bent  knees,  like  a  cripple  sitting  in  a  bowl, 
with  the  agility  acquired  by  long  practice  at  public 
dances.  On  seeing  the  police,  they  swerved  slightly, 
but  sang  all  the  louder,  and  when  they  passed  under 
the  bridge  their  heads  spun  with  the  echo,  and  they 
used  up  every  ounce  of  strength  in  their  crazed  bodies 
in  order  to  increase  the  volume  of  noise.  Frenzied 
yells  poured  from  their  twisted  mouths,  until  they 
reeled  with  dizziness.  They  imitated  the  Major's 
antics,  like  so  many  drunken  animals,  accentuating 
each  step  with  a  shout.  The  little  old  woman  was 
jounced  about  by  her  two  escorts,  and  her  head  wobbled 
back  and  forth  between  their  two  supporting  shoul- 
ders. Her  spectacles  dropped  into  the  street,  and  one 
could  see  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Then  they 
sat  down  at  the  table  abandoned  by  the  people  who 
had  come  to  say  good-bye  to  the  Joy  Boy  with  the 
accordion.  The  neck  of  a  bottle  of  red  wine  was  stick- 
ing out  of  one  of  the  men's  knapsacks,  and  he  laid  his 
head  for  a  moment  on  his  sobbing  mother's  shoulder, 
and  then,  with  quick  determined  steps,  he  went 
through  the  line  of  soldiers,  which  closed  in  behind 
him. 

Other  Joy  Boys  followed  his  example,  and  left  their 


THE  JOY  BOYS  179 

women  weeping  alone.  The  prostitutes  did  not  con- 
cern themselves  with  the  crowd  of  onlookers,  for  they 
had  no  heart  now  for  their  work,  and  tears  rolled 
down  over  their  faces,  distorted  by  grief.  The  woman 
in  black  silk  set  them  an  example  of  amazing  courage: 
standing  very  straight  against  one  of  the  bridge 
stanchions,  she  turned  a  set  face  towards  the  police- 
men; her  mouth  trembled,  and  beneath  the  skin  of 
her  neck, — bared  for  professional  reasons, — one  could 
see  that  she  was  swallowing  hard;  but  that  was  all. 

Near  her,  an  'old  soldier,  from  one  of  the  African 
battalions,  exemplified  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
African  discipline.  He  was  drunk,  and  from  beneath 
a  moth-eaten  moustache  he  slobbered  out  his  scorn  for 
uniforms  and  authority.  There  was  a  gleam  of  bru- 
tality in  his  eyes,  and  he  sneered  at  the  sacred  anguish 
of  those  mothers  with  their  hands  held  before  their 
faces. 

An  infantry  captain  had  the  call  sounded  up  and 
down  the  boulevard,  and  the  remaining  Joy  Boys  pre- 
sented themselves  at  this  last  summons. 

On  the  side  where  the  sign  "WALK  YOUR 
HORSES  "  was  hanging,  the  Company's  clerks  left 
their  books  to  watch  them  coming  in.  Their  orderly 
souls  were  horrified  at  the  spectacle  of  these  idle  men. 
They  declared: 

"  It  wouldn't  do  to  meet  them  at  night,"  and  re- 
turned to  their  work. 


i8o  PEOPLE 

A  stern  officer  grouped  the  recruits  in  front  of  the 
city  tolls  office,  where  the  customs  officials  waited, 
scowling  but  patient,  under  shelter  of  the  vines  around 
the  doorway.  The  loss  of  their  freedom  calmed  the 
spirits  of  the  Joy  Boys,  who  were  dazed  by  wine,  grief, 
and  fear.  Their  minds  contained  but  one  sensation: 
the  dread  of  impending  authority. 

"  They're  goin'  to  make  us  sweat  for  it,"  said  the 
one  in  blue  slippers  with  the  bull-dog  jaw,  conjecturing 
about  their  labours  of  atonement. 

The  corporals,  who  were  obliged  to  be  severe  in  the 
presence  of  their  superior  officers,  could  be  very  agree- 
able when  away  from  them,  and  they  coaxed  the  Joy 
Boys  now  in  a  most  friendly  and  engaging  manner. 
They  knew  how  useless  it  would  be  to  try  to  pacify 
these  sullen  individuals  with  the  accepted  methods 
of  severity.  Some  of  them  were  too  drunk  to  fall  for 
this  unexpected  kindness,  and  maintained  the  stubborn 
attitudes  which  it  had  been  their  intention  to  adopt. 
They  snapped  out  surly  replies  to  the  soldiers'  good- 
humoured  questions: 

"What  t'hell  d'ye  mean?  .  .  .  That's  no  god 
damn  business  of  yours?  ..." 

"Which  is  it  fer  you?  Algiers?  Wait  till  ye  see 
the  women  there!  " 

An  enormous  limousine  slid  softly  into  the  court, 
and,  emitting  a  hoarse  groan  from  its  gleaming  brass 
horn,  came  to  a  standstill  behind  a  van  containing  the 


THE  JOY  BOYS  181 

furniture  of  M.  Hart-Olivier,  a  rich  financier.  His 
agent,  M.  de  Batonnet,  an  ex-cavalry  officer,  had  ar- 
rived to  superintend  the  loading  of  these  sumptuous 
articles,  bound  for  Lugano.  Mme.  Hart-Olivier,  who 
was  honorary  president  of  the  S.D.M.  (Society  for  the 
Diminution  of  Misery),  had  decided  to  spend  her 
winters  there.  M.  de  Batonnet  ordered  the  doors  of 
the  van  to  be  opened,  so  that  he  might  make  a  final 
inspection  of  the  packing,  and  one  could  see  pieces 
of  brass  and  polished  wood  shining  in  the  obscurity; 
a  massive  gilt  knob  protruded  from  one  of  the  canvas 
coverings,  and  the  recruits,  intrigued  by  these  riches 
behind  their  curtain  of  straw,  edged  up  as  near  the 
van  as  possible.  They  longed  to  set  fire  to  it,  for 
they  had  an  instinctive  hatred  of  the  luxury  their 
misery  had  helped  to  produce. 

The  infantrymen  now  lined  up  the  Joy  Boys  in  the 
station  guard-house,  to  have  their  service  papers  re- 
vised by  two  majors  of  the  Medical  Corps.  The 
chronic  drunkards,  whose  craving  had  become  unbear- 
able, begged  for  drinks,  and,  being  refused  this  dis- 
pensation, they  lifted  clenched  fists,  only  to  drop  them 
again  hopelessly.  They  realized  now  that  this  kind 
of  satisfaction  was  no  longer  to  be  indulged  in. 

The  recruits  chewed  their  cigarettes  nervously,  and 
the  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  smoke  and  liquor.  No 
one  dreamt  of  opening  a  window,  but  several  of  the 
men  agreed  that  some  of  the  panes  should  be  broken. 


182  PEOPLE 

The  noise  and  fresh  air  reanimated  them  with  mis- 
chievous energy,  and  a  volley  of  empty  wine  bottles 
soon  demolished  the  two  gas  jets,  but  the  sudden 
entrance  of  the  municipal  guards  had  a  calming  effect. 
The  recruits  were  then  gently  pushed  towards  the  doc- 
tors, for  whom  they  stripped  to  the  waist.  Declara- 
tions of  love  and  seditious  inscriptions  were  tattooed 
upon  most  of  the  bared  chests  and  backs.  The  thread- 
bare "  To  hell  with  the  police!  "  surrounded  two 
crossed  knives  upon  the  muscular  chest  of  the  one 
with  the  bull-dog  jaw  and  shifty  eyes. 

The  doctors,  with  their  stethoscopes  and  towels, 
said:  "  Cough!  "  and  raucous  throats  barked  in 
reply. 

The  accordion  player  with  the  yellow  shoes  took  a 
deep  breath  and  displayed  the  representation  of  a 
pierced  heart,  and  the  words: 

"  Titine's  for  life." 

The  repeated  consecration  of  bodies  to  Titine  tes- 
tified to  the  popularity  of  this  pet  name,  and  upon 
another,  marked  by  two  scars,  occurred  a  verse  both 
socialistic  and  erotic: 

"  My  head  is  for  Deibler, 
The  rest  for  Titine." 

The   dignity   of   the  staff-officers,   with   their   gilt 


THE  JOY  BOYS  183 

shoulder-knots,  was  slightly  compromised  by  a  too 
close  scrutiny  of  these  indecorous  devices,  but  they 
completely  regained  it  by  means  of  curt  orders  to  the 
recruits,  snapped  at  them  from  across  the  room: 

"Examined  men!     Out  this  way!  " 

Upstairs,  in  the  long  mess-room,  the  municipal 
guards  on  duty  succeeded  in  impressing  the  recruits 
with  the  wisdom  of  complaisance, — they  were  used  to 
handling  crowds.  Huddled  around  the  windows,  the 
men  gazed  gloomily  out  over  Paris  for  the  last  time, 
and  their  minds  were  filled  with  regret  at  the  thought 
of  all  those  wine-shops,  without  which  life  would  be 
impossible. 

A  recruit  who  should  -have  presented  himself  the 
day  before  was  severely  reprimanded  by  the  cap- 
tain : 

"  Why  weren't  you  here  yesterday?  " 

"Had  too  much  liquor  in  me."  This  was  quite 
obvious,  for  he  could  scarcely  keep  his  eyes  open,  and 
his  baby  face  was  still  flushed  like  ripe  fruit — an  at- 
tribute highly  prized  by  women. 

"  Go  round  to  the  boulevard  de  La  Chapelle,"  said 
the  captain;  "  they'll  tell  you  what  to  do." 

Completely  mystified,  he  replied: 

"  I'm  late  already,  and  if  I  beats  it  now,  I'll  only 
be  later." 

His  mind,  accustomed  to  direct  answers,  was  in- 
capable of  encompassing  the  intricacies  of  official  red 


184  PEOPLE 

tape,  and  he  stopped  two  or  three  times  on  his  way 
to  the  door,  lost  in  meditation,  thereby  throwing  his 
escort  out  of  step.  He  begged  for  their  advice: 

"  What  d'ye  think  I've  got  to  do?  " 

"  Keep  moving,"  they  told  him. 

He  wanted  to  go  back  again  to  the  officers,  but  was 
prevented  from  doing  this,  and  the  troopers  said: 

"  They  told  ye  what  to  do,  and  now  they  don't  want 
ye  messin'  about  askin'  questions." 

He  repeated  pitifully: 

"  Where'll  I  go?  " 

The  guard  of  light  infantrymen  took  up  their  rifles, 
and  surrounded  the  Joy  Boys  who  had  been  brought 
from  the  mess-room.  Forty-seven  refractory  ones 
were  missing. 

"Forward,  march!  "  commanded  the  captain,  and 
'the  recruits  advanced,  keeping  time  with  the  regular 
step  of  the  soldiers,  like  a  column  of  prisoners  of  war. 

The  special  train  was  waiting  on  a  side  track,  and 
the  infantrymen  filled  their  canteens  at  the  drinking 
fountain — after  carefully  swallowing  their  contents  of 
ten-sou  wine — to  appease  the  thirst  of  the  Joy  Boys 
from  the  North,  who  had  been  brought  from  Cambrai 
by  an  escort  of  first-line  troops.  They  had  been  con- 
fined in  a  third-class  carriage,  marked  C.  1977  21  T., 
since  eight  o'clock  that  morning,  and  the  approach  of 
the  Parisians  brought  them  crowding  to  the  windows. 
The  open  mouths  of  these  stolid,  brown-skinned 


THE  JOY  BOYS  185 

Flemish  men, — experts  with  the  knife, — were  the  only 
evidence  of  their  curiosity.  » 

The  soldiers,  reinforced  by  the  police,  took  up  posi- 
tions facing  the  train,  and  formed  a  living  barrier 
against  any  intrusion  of  the  railwaymen,  who  were 
freed  from  their  labours  by  the  striking  of  twelve 
o'clock. 

M.  de  Batonnet  concluded  his  important  supervision 
of  Mme.  Hart-Olivier's  furniture,  and  greeted  a  staff 
captain,  whose  well-anointed  hair  at  the  back  of  his 
head  repeated  the  gleaming  black  of  his  varnished 
boots.  This  smart-looking  individual  felt  the  need  of 
exercising  his  authority,  so  he  turned  to  the  crowd  of 
inquisitive  clerks,  and  ordered  them  to  stand  back, 
accompanying  his  words  by  a  series  of  rapid  indica- 
tions with  his  gloved  hand. 

The  unadorned  officials  of  the  Railway  Company 
made  a  poor  showing  beside  these  gaudy  and  incom- 
petent officers,  but  they  answered  their  requests  for 
information  patronizngly,  and  told  them  to  take  their 
seats,  for  it  was  time  for  the  train  to  start:  twelve- 
eight. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  last  minute,  the  officers  were 
forced  to  abandon  their  rigid  attitudes.  The  locomo- 
tive moved  slowly  forward,  and  a  tight  bunch  of  heads 
filled  every  window.  The  men  from  the  North  still 
gazed  silently  and  stupidly,  like  caged  animals,  at  the 
people  on  the  platform;  but  the  Parisians  screamed 


r86  PEOPLE 

out  their  hatred  of  their  old  enemies,  the  police. 
Their  faces  were  distorted  with  rage  and  despair. 
Fists  and  clenched  hands  shot  out  furiously,  almost 
tearing  arms  from  shoulders.  These  men  were  now 
under  military  control,  and  the  policemen  remained 
silent,  trying  to  conceal  their  anger  at  the  insults 
hurled  at  them. 

The  noise  of  the  train,  now  well  under  way,  drowned 
the  spent  voices,  and  the  yelling  soon  ceased,  except 
for  one  man,  who  was  leaning  through  a  broken  win- 
dow, holding  the  two  jagged  edges  with  his  hands. 
His  words  were  inaudible,  but  his  lips  showed  that  he 
was  repeating  over  and  over  again,  "  To  hell  with  the 
police!  " 

Then  he  disappeared  beneath  the  attack  of  a  recruit 
just  behind  him,  who  stretched  out  his  arms  and 
shouted: 

"  Good-bye,  Brothers!  " 

Perhaps  he  saw  some  friends,  or  it  may  be  that  he 
was  addressing  himself  to  the  watching  crowd. 

The  red  disk  on  the  end  of  the  train  passed  out 
of  the  station,  and  the  officers  on  the  platform  pulled 
out  their  watches  and  hurried  off  to  lunch.  An  in- 
fantry sergeant  raised  his  rifle:  "Attention!"  and 
the  railwaymen,  who  had  been  distracted  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  departure  of  these  forlorn  individuals, 
resumed  their  ordinary  existence. 


MONSIEUR  BECQUERIAUX 

M.  BECQUERIAUX,  of  the  Soudant  Weaving  Mills 
(Becqueriaux  &  Co.),  walked  into  a  barber-shop,  and 
was  shown  to  a  vacant  chair  by  one  of  the  white- 
coated  barbers. 

"  This  way,  Sir.    Do  you  wish  a  hair-cut?  " 

"Yes.    And  a  shave  too,  please." 

"  Very  good,  Sir.   Would  you  care  for  a  magazine?  " 

"  No." 

M.  Becqueriaux  had  to  meditate  upon  more  urgent 
matters  than  the  pictures  in  a  magazine.  He  cal- 
culated: 

"  Urals  are  482  to-day,  and  they're  going  up.  I 
sold  300  shares  short,  at  350.  On  the  thirtieth,  when 
the  affair  is  wound  up,  they'll  be  up  to  500:  a  loss 
of  45,000  francs." 

He  passed  his  arms  through  the  sleeves  in  the  bar- 
ber's cloth,  and  replied  to  his  question: 

"Yes,  cut  it  rather  short." 

Sitting  there  with  his  arms  crossed  in  his  lap,  he 
gave  one  the  impression  of  a  white  sack,  burst  open 
at  the  top  by  his  black  head,  beneath  the  barber's 
gleaming  scissors.  A  precise  voice  next  to  him  said: 
"  Wipe  it  carefully,  please."  He  rolled  his  eyes  as  far 
around  as  possible,  and  discovered  M.  Renard,  his 

187, 


i88  PEOPLE 

blond  hair  almost  invisible  under  a  thick  coating  of 
lather.  A  barber,  with  rolled-up  sleeves,  began  to 
rub  vigorously. 

"That's  enough,"  said  M.  Renard,  and  he  greeted 
M.  Becqueriaux  in  the  mirror.  The  latter  replied  by 
raising  his  eyebrows,  since  he  was  obliged  to  keep 
his  head  still  for  the  barber. 

"  He  could  easily  get  me  out  of  this  scrape,"  thought 
M.  Becqueriaux*  "  forty-five  thousand  francs  would 
mean  nothing  to  him.  He  gives  twice  that  amount 
every  year  to  the  women  around  here  and  in  Paris. 
But  I  won't  ask  him  for  it;  he  was  nearly  sold  up 
six  years  ago,  and  it  increases  his  opinion  of  himself 
to  see  this  happen  to  others." 

M.  Becqueriaux  turned  his  head  as  much  as  the 
scissors  would  permit,  in  order  to  see  the  occupants 
of  the  other  chairs.  The  shop  was  patronized  exclu- 
sively by  big  business  men. 

M.  Evricourt,  Counsellor-General,  who  was  as  big 
as  two  men,  held  forth  to  his  barber  at  the  top  of 
his  lungs.  Universal  suffrage  had  taught  him  to  talk 
to  everybody,  and  he  was  a  democrat.  Ever  since 
the  war  scare,  he  had  kept  aside  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  in  gold,  but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  in- 
dulging in  frequent  flutters  in  Textiles, — he  was  the 
owner  of  several  spinning  mills,  and  his  plunges  were 
usually  taken  at  the  right  moment.  There  was  a 
million  francs'  worth  of  flax  in  his  establishment  in  the 


MONSIEUR  BECQUERIAUX  189 

rue  au  Peterinck,  on  which  he  expected  a  rise,  and  he 
had  just  scored  off  his  brother,  who  had  been  obliged 
to  buy  tow  from  him;  this  transaction  had  netted  him 
three  hundred  thousand. 

M.  Bonnel,  whose  eyes  were  the  colour  of  the  razor 
blade  that  moved  across  his  cheek,  wore  his  usual  ap- 
pearance of  gloom.  People  didn't  know  just  what  he 
was  worth,  but  his  wife  had  never  been  seen  without 
at  least  ten  thousand  francs  hanging  from  each  ear. 
His  friends  declared  that  he  assisted  firms  that  had 
come  to  grief,  put  them  on  their  feet  again,  and  then 
sold  out  his  share  at  a  profit  of  one  hundred  per  cent. 
When  the  Artificial  Silk  Company  had  privately 
wound  up  its  affairs,  the  factory,  and  the  property  on 
which  it  stood,  had  come  to  him  as  mortgagee.  Two 
days  ago  he  had  sold  these  back  to  the  company  at 
a  profit  of  three  hundred  per  cent.,  for  the  manufac- 
ture of  the  Carlier  Patents,  of  which  concern  he  him- 
self was  the  director.  Others  said  he  sometimes  came 
out  badly  in  these  deals,  and  that  he  lived  on  what 
he  made  out  of  his  cotton  twisting  business. 

"  I  wonder  whether  he's  worth  a  lot,"  thought  M. 
Becqueriaux,  "  or  whether  he's  just  comfortably  off? 
His  clothes,  and  the  expression  on  his  face,  don't  give 
the  slightest  hint.  When  he  hears  I'm  done  for,  he'll 
come  rummaging  into  my  affairs  to  see  if  there's  any- 
thing he  can  turn  to  account,  even  if  he  is  worth 
twenty  million  francs." 


igo  PEOPLE 

He  tried  to  see  into  the  minds  of  these  men,  who 
nodded  to  him  in  the  street,  and  asked  after  his  wife 
and  children.  The  ones  he  knew  best  would  take  his 
downfall  calmly;  and  the  others  would  be  delighted,  and 
would  say  he  had  bitten  off  more  than  he  could  chew. 

"  Soudant  took  me  as  a  partner  on  account  of  my 
ability,  and  not  because  of  my  hundred  thousand 
francs.  I  wanted  to  increase  my  capital  by  a  little 
speculation,  and  I've  lost.  Soudant  helped  me  out  last 
year.  He  said:  'You  can  stay  with  us,  but  don't 
gamble  any  more.'  He  made  a  fortune  at  it,  and  he's 
afraid  I  will  too.  He'd  never  get  over  it,  if  I  should 
make  as  much  as  he's  got.  I  know  he  wants  to  keep 
me,  and  he'll  never  regret  doing  it.  It's  going  to  take 
my  whole  share  in  the  year's  profits  to  get  me  out 
of  the  hole  I'll  be  in.  I  wonder  on  what  terms 
Soudant  will  advance  it  to  me." 

The  barber  obliged  him  to  sink  his  chin  upon  his 
breast,  and  M.  Becqueriaux,  who  hated  being  pushed 
about  like  this,  shook  his  head  irritably.  Then  he 
closed  his  eyes,  and  began  to  weigh  his  chances  with 
Soudant: 

"  It  takes  an  experienced  man  to  manage  the  rascals 
who  call  themselves  workmen  to-day.  Soudant's  not 
up  to  it,  and  never  will  be;  he's  only  a  business  man. 
The  men  are  like  a  lot  of  convicts,  and  it's  a  good 
thing,  because  they  need  a  warden.  The  firm  won't 
let  me  go." 


MONSIEUR  BECQUERIAUX  191 

He  felt  a  sudden  pressure  on  his  left  shoulder;  the 
barber  was  leaning  heavily  upon  him,  as  though  he 
were  a  piece  of  furniture,  and  M.  Becqueriaux's  first 
impulse  was  to  shake  him  off,  and  treat  him  to  the 
kind  of  language  his  workmen  heard  him  use.  But 
a  sort  of  shyness,  that  he  couldn't  at  all  understand, 
kept  him  silent  and  motionless  in  his  chair.  Was  he 
afraid  of  raising  his  voice  in  the  presence  of  these 
men,  who  would,  perhaps,  soon  be  wishing  to  avoid 
speaking  to  him?  In  the  mirror  before  him,  he 
watched  the  barber.  He  was  a  thin,  grey-haired  man, 
whose  white  jacket  and  well-cut  hair  gave  him  a  super- 
ficial appearance  of  youth,  but  his  fifty-five  years 
could  not  be  more  than  momentarily  masked.  He 
supported  himself  on  his  customer's  shoulder,  his 
white  face  distorted  by  a  sudden  pain,  and  he  watched 
anxiously  to  see  whether  the  man,  whose  money  was 
going  to  buy  his  bread  and  butter,  had  noticed  any- 
thing out  of  the  way.  M.  Becqueriaux  lowered  his 
eyes,  and  the  scissors  began  snipping,  but  only  to 
come  again  to  a  sudden  stop.  An  acute  attack  of 
sciatica,  or  something  like  it,  had  taken  the  barber 
just  above  the  hip,  and  he  writhed  with  the  pain  of 
it.  Then  M.  Becqueriaux  thought  someone  was  look- 
ing at  him  from  the  mirror,  and  he  was  astonished 
to  find  that  it  was  himself,  Becqueriaux;  he  had  never 
seen  this  expression  upon  his  face  before.  A  man's 
thoughts  can  alter  his  face  more  than  a  hair-cut,  and 


192  PEOPLE 

he  flashed  a  welcoming  smile  at  the  unfamiliar  reflec- 
tion in  the  mirror. 

The  barber  straightened  up,  supporting  himself  with 
his  two  hands  on  the  wooden  back  of  the  chair: 

"  Shall  I  shave  you,  Sir?  " 

"Yes,  please,"  said  M.  Becqueriaux,  and  when  the 
lather  was  on  his  face,  he  saw  that  the  pain  had  not 
abated.  He  tried  to  assist  the  barber  by  holding  his 
cheek  in  a  position  requiring  the  shortest  possible 
movements.  The  razor  passed  slowly,  but  carefully, 
over  his  face.  The  tortured  man  was  doing  his  work 
well. 

M.  Becqueriaux  spared  him  as  much  as  he  could: 

"Don't  bother  with  my  moustache.  It'll  do  quite 
well  like  that,  thank  you." 

He  put  on  his  overcoat,  before  the  barber  had  a 
chance  to  hold  it  for  him,  and  slipped  five  francs  into 
his  hand.  The  grey  head  bowed  low. 

M.  Becqueriaux  nodded  to  M.  Evricourt,  whose 
smiling  face  was  red  and  smooth.  Outside,  the  cold 
wind  bit  into  a  tiny  cut  on  his  left  cheek.  He  touched 
it,  and  saw  a  little  pink  spot  on  his  forefinger.  He 
wasn't  angry  at  all;  a  moment  ago,  he  had  not  recog- 
nized his  own  face  in  the  glass;  now  even  his  impulses 
were  strange  to  him.  What  sort  of  a  face  would  he 
find  looking  at  him  now?  .  .  .  This  was  how  he 
learned  what  pity  was. 


THE  KING'S  C'S 

MY  friend  Pelaud,  bachelor  of  letters  and  butcher, 
was  polishing  his  right  thumb  nail  on  a  steel  which 
he  held  in  his  left  hand. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for:  to  cut  your  quid? 
You  look  a  bit  down  in  the  mouth.  Customers  no 
good?  Eh?" 

He  started  to  whistle: 

"  Tons  les  clients  sont  des  cochons." 

Then  he  pointed  to  a  young  man  dressed  in  his  Sun- 
day clothes,  who  stood  in  front  of  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Philippe-du-Roule,  crying:  "  L' Action  Franqaise." 

"  There's  something  you  can  get  real  amusement  out 
of.  It's  the  only  comic  paper  you  can  get  now  for 
a  sou.  Le  Rire  and  Le  Sourire  cost  four,  and  you 
can  read  them  for  nothing  when  you  get  a  hair-cut. 
L' Action  Franqaise  is  never  at  the  barber's.  Have  a 
look  at  it." 

He  beckoned  to  the  distinguished  vendor  of  the 
paper,  gave  him  a  sou,  and  told  me: 

"He's  a  capital  C,  which  means  King's  Camelot. 
Too  much  trouble  to  say  all  that." 

193 


194  PEOPLE 

Pelaud,  who  just  missed  being  a  priest,  explained 
his  present  plight: 

"  I'm  a  butcher  because  I'm  stony  broke." 

His  continual  habit  of  pulling  out  his  empty  pockets 
had  earned  him  the  usual  nickname:  Pelaud.*  He 
had  all  the  current  notions  about  the  butcher's  trade, 
and  was  always  surprised  when  people  refused  to  eat 
meat  that  had  not  been  killed. 

"And  do  you  eat  nothing  but  killed  meat?  Dead 
mutton  is  dead  mutton,  from  the  time  it  stops  moving 
until  it  starts  to  move  again." 

He  made  a  great  fuss  over  the  King's  Camelots  to 
please  his  old  boss  in  the  rue  de  Bellechasse,  who  had 
to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  the  high-grade  customers 
in  his  quarter.  Now  Pelaud  had  a  different  opinion 
of  these  gentlemen: 

"Antique  Foutaise!  They're  humbugs  and  out  of 
date.  Nothing  but  ghosts,  and  always  hi  evidence.  I 
couldn't  be  one  of  them,  any  more  than  I  could  be  a 
priest.  It  takes  courage  not  to  mind  being  taken  for 
a  fool  when  you  bark  at  the  moon." 

Pelaud  was  delighted  with  my  attention,  and  seemed 
pleased  to  have  someone  to  whom  he  could  speak  in 
a  language  above  that  of  his  profession;  he  began  to 
draw  upon  his  knowledge  of  pure  French: 

"  These  little  fellows  make  a  great  mistake  in  taking 
time  from  their  studies  to  amuse  the  public  with  their 

*  Pelaud,  slang  for  "sou." 


THE  KING'S  C'S  195 

attempts  to  look  important.  One  ought  to  do  impor- 
tant things  with  the  air  of  doing  nothing,  and  an  ap- 
pearance of  great  preoccupation  should  only  be  worn 
when  one  has  nothing  to  accomplish.  They  worship 
their  lord  and  master  Philippe,  who  was  careful 
enough  to  take  a  number:  eight, — as  one  generally 
does  when  one  has  to  wait. 

"They're  tender-skinned  fighters,  and  for  that 
reason  they're  usually  clever  enough  to  arrange  their 
brawls  when  they  themselves  are  in  force  against  one 
opponent.  The  only  thing  is,  they  have  no  rallying 
cry;  I  told  them  to  use,  '  Pee-weet!  '  for  '  Montjoye 
Saint-Denys!  ' 

"  M.  Charles  Maurras,  from  whose  mouth  fall 
jewels,  teaches  them  political  paleontology,  and  M. 
Pujo  has  charge  of  their  immortal  souls:  'You  don't 
agree  with  me!  ALL  RIGHT!  Where's  the  whip!  ' 

"  They're  like  siphons  of  soda  water.  Always 
bursting  out  with  something,  in  the  belief  that  the 
gentleman  with  ticket  No.  8  can  be  put  on  the  throne 
of  France  by  punching  people  in  the  face  and  making 
crazy  speeches." 

Pelaud  held  up  his  hand: 

"  Stop  laughing!  You'll  wear  yourself  out  and 
make  the  jokes  stale  before  his  turn  comes,  and  when 
he's  dead  ..."  He  pointed  to  Article  445  of  the 
Criminal  Code  in  the  newspaper. 

"  It's  always  the  same  old  story  till  you're  sick  of 


196  PEOPLE 

it.  They  cut  out  wooden  amulets  and  give  them  to 
the  youngsters  who  do  the  best  fighting.  When  they 
hang  them  around  their  necks  like  scapularies,  they 
acquire  fresh  strength.  I  got  the  talisman  for  teach- 
ing them  to  pour  lead  into  mutton  bones,  but  they 
were  much  too  well  brought  up  to  know  how  to  use 
them.  They're  still  at  the  scratching  stage, — a  long 
way  from  killing  anybody  yet.  They're  not  assassins, 
but  only  puppets,  quite  incapable  of  murdering  any- 
one, or  of  putting  M.  Eight  on  the  balcony  with  an 
arquebuse.  But  they  do  go  in  for  enough  violence  to 
suit  their  contemptible  little  dispositions,  and,  as  they 
think,  to  astonish  the  pubic.  Hear  them  now!  Hou- 
hou!  they're  kicking  up  a  rumpus! 

"  In  every  nook  and  corner,  you'll  find  them  jab- 
bering their  rotten  nonsense.  They  even  call  the  serv- 
ants together  in  the  Salle  Wagram.  I  get  disgusted 
with  flunkies.  They  never  wipe  their  feet,  even  for  the 
servants'  staircase,  where  it's  so  dark  that  you  have 
to  look  with  your  fingers.  I  always  say: 

" '  If  I  was  like  you,  paid  to  go  paddling  around 
over  carpets  with  slippers  on,  or  to  warm  my  tail  in  a 
comfortable  chair,  I  wouldn't  have  muddy  shoes.' ' 

He  stopped  using  the  ignorant,  malicious  speech  of 
his  calling,  and  went  on  more  correctly: 

"  Plenty  of  servants  are  C's.  M.  le  comte  Eugene 
de  Lur-Saluces  told  them  that  M.  Eight  was  King  of 
Labour.  Where  was  he  apprenticed?  The  Comte 


THE  KING'S  C'S  197 

didn't  say.  You  find  people  working  everywhere. 
When  Bebe-la-Chinoise  started  out  to  do  her  stunt  at 
Ternes,  she  used  to  say:  c  I'm  off  to  my  work.' " 

I  offered  this  explanation: 

"  King  of  Labour,  who  controls  the  phenomena  of 
production,  consumption,  and  trade." 

"  Wait,"  said  Pelaud,  "  I  have  to  go  in  here  a 
moment.  .  .  .  Every  labouring  man  has  a  dream 
— not  that  of  being  ruled  by  M.  Eight — and  His 
Royal  Highness  would  see  it  realized  if  he  were  to 
stroll  by  one  fine  day,  as  the  C's  here  are  always  hop- 
ing he  will  do,  and,  out  of  respect  for  our  ideals,  we 
should  spoil  the  seat  of  this  Labour  King's  trousers 
with  the  nails  of  our  labourer's  shoes. 

"  '  Please  wipe  your  feet.' 

"  We  know  a  little  History. 

"And  when  M.  Eight  is  crowned,  who  will  be 
Keeper  of  the  Sponge?  M.  Charles  Maurras?  And 
will  there  be  a  brothel  near  the  Palace,  or,  as  they 
say,  in  the  Palace?  Will  his  accession  to  the  throne 
be  celebrated  by  illuminations  in  the  bawdy  houses? 

"  The  people,  who  think  nothing  of  the  vapourings 
of  these  A.F.'s,  only  laugh  at  the  idea  of  being  ruled 
by  this  old  scoundrel.  The  working-people,  who  want 
their  ideas  worked  out  practically,  deserve  to  be  led 
by  a  man. 

"  What  does  this  King  do?  He  runs  after  women. 
Pretty  theories  that  are  waiting  to  be  put  into  prac- 


198  PEOPLE 

tice  won't  do.  If  M.  Eight's  forebears  had  not  long 
since  disgusted  us  with  royalty,  he  would  only  have 
to  show  himself,  and  it  would  turn  France's  stomach. 

"  The  people  who  are  asking  for  a  King  must  either 
have  oil  to  sell,  or  be  afflicted  with  king's  evil.  The 
old  ones  were  nothing  but  charlatans  on  whose  heads 
the  priests  made  salad  at  Saint-Denis. 

"  And  that  little  chap  who's  always  singing:  '  Adieu, 
veau,  vache,  cochon  .  .  .  couvee'  I  learned  that 
at  school  too. 

"  There  are  King's  Camelots  still  on  the  bottle,  and 
some  have  one  foot  in  the  grave:  the  young  ones  as 
mad  as  hatters,  and  the  old  ones  only  able  to  slobber; 
for  it  is  written: 

1  My  little  Leon, 
Every  year  you  live  makes  you  a  better  C! 

"  I'm  off.  I've  got  to  trim  those  sirloins."  And  I 
heard  his  voice,  now  that  of  a  journeyman-butcher: 

"Beef  at  ten  sous! 
Beef  at  eight  sous! 
And  it's  all  good  stuff! " 


THE  SCREEN 

M.  PLUVINAGE  kept  a  hotel  in  the  Place  d'Armes. 
The  unmarried  captains  and  lieutenants  in  the  line 
regiment,  who  were  stationed  in  the  little  town  with 
its  three  bell  towers,  could  get  their  meals  there  for 
a  hundred  francs  a  month.  There  were  two  tables  in 
the  long  dining-room:  one  with  twenty  places,  between 
the  fireplace  and  the  window  that  looked  on  to  the 
square,  and  another  that  would  seat  forty,  by  the 
window  giving  on  to  the  courtyard.  The  room  was  a 
lofty  one,  with  a  beamed  ceiling  and  a  tiny  fireplace; 
in  winter  it  was  bitterly  cold,  but  the  food  was  good. 
The  officers,  and  a  few  consequential  civilians,  sat  at 
the  cheerful  table,  and  the  people  of  small  importance 
sat  with  the  transients  at  the  gloomy  one.  At  least 
fifteen  seats  were  occupied  every  day  at  the  officers' 
table,  while  the  other  was  never  more  than  a  third 
full,  except  on  market  days,  when  it  was  encompassed 
by  a  dense  belt  of  humanity. 

The  Flemish  lunch-hour  was  one  o'clock,  and  the 
officers,  who  were  accustomed  to  eating  at  noon,  split 
the  difference,  and  by  keeping  punctually  to  this  hour 
every  day,  they  had  only  to  fulfil  the  tiresome  duty 
of  greeting  the  other  occupants  of  the  room  on  get- 
ting up  from  their  meal. 

199 


200  PEOPLE 

At  table  they  talked  shop  and  food.  A  little  bald- 
headed  lieutenant  from  Avignon  was  fond  of  saying: 

"  In  the  South,  we  ate  stuffed  pumpkin  blossoms, 
and  asparagus  with  mimosa  sauce."  Or  else,  "  In  the 
Alps,  I've  often  eaten  chamois  meat;  it's  delicious!  " 

The  civilians  who  sat  at  the  officers'  table  some- 
times entered  the  dining-room  with  them,  but  they  in- 
dulged in  conversation  of  a  higher  grade.  It  always 
amused  them  intensely  to  speculate  as  to  why  M. 
Tariet, — a  widower  with  a  chicory  business,  and  a 
pension, — never  had  any  appetite  on  Mondays.  They 
supposed  it  was  from  too  much  liquor  on  Sundays,  and 
too  much  of  what  usually  follows  the  consumption  of 
liquor. 

M.  Tariet  always  came  last  into  the  dining-room, 
and  when  the  little  old  man  smilingly  took  his  seat, 
M.  Boudringhien, — Recorder  to  the  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  and  a  man  with  a  reputation  for  good  living, — 
made  noises  like  a  cat  calling  amorously  to  its  mate: 
"Miaou!  Miaou!  "  And  the  captains,  whose  well- 
filled  stomachs  touched  the  edge  of  the  table,  burst 
into  shouts  of  laughter.  They  appeared  in  civilian 
clothes  at  dinner,  and  this  attire  suited  their  free  and 
easy  manners  better  than  the  uniform. 

M.  Verhard  looked  more  like  a  soldier  than  any 
of  the  other  civilians;  he  was  Chief  Receiver  of  Tolls, 
Sub-Lieutenant  in  the  Reserves,  and  Captain  of  the 
Fire  Brigade,  and  he  gave  one  the  impression  of  an 


THE  SCREEN  201 

enormous  wine-cask.  This  massive  figure,  always 
stiffly  erect,  was  surmounted  by  a  very  small  red  face, 
or  perhaps  it  only  seemed  small  on  account  of  a  per- 
petual frown  which  shortened  the  distance  between  the 
eyebrows  and  the  mouth.  M.  Verhard's  whole  face 
seemed  to  be  drawn  up  into  a  knot  at  his  nose;  his 
calling  required  severity.  He  was  more  carefully 
dressed  than  the  officers,  who  wore  their  caps  on  one 
side;  the  brim  of  his  hat  was  exactly  equidistant  from 
his  two  big  ears.  He  never  laughed  when  M.  Bou- 
dringhien  said  "  Miaou!  ",  but  he  had  a  weakness  for 
scandal,  and  his  companions  nicknamed  him  M. 
Fact-is-that,  because  of  his  invariable  opening  phrase. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  said  one  day  at  lunch,  "  that  the 
colonel  of  our  cuirassiers  is  a  licentious  old  thing.  He 
hung  around  so  much  in  the  waiting-room  with  those 
two  pretty  ticket  girls,  that  the  Company  had  to  get 
rid  of  them,  and  since  this  morning  two  of  the  ugliest 
ones  in  their  employ  have  been  sitting  behind  the 
wickets:  one's  got  a  beard,  and  the  other's  cross- 
eyed." 

The  sudden  entrance  of  a  captain  of  the  cuirassiers 
terrified  the  boarders.  M.  Verhard  sat  up  so  stiffly 
that  he  could  eat  nothing  but  bread;  he  was  unwilling 
to  risk  carrying  anything  else  all  the  way  from  his 
plate  to  his  mouth,  for  fear  of  spilling.  Then  the 
cuirassier  saluted  the  officers  of  the  line,  who  stood 
up  with  red  faces  and  full  mouths. 


202  PEOPLE 

He  asked  politely  whether  the  place  nearest  him 
was  taken,  and  then  sat  down  with  the  infantry, — a 
cuirassier  had  never  before  been  known  to  do  such  a 
thing.  The  civilians  at  both  tables  stared  incredu- 
lously, when  he  wasn't  looking  their  way,  and  Mme. 
Pluvinage  read  him  the  bill-of-fare.  She  waited  upon 
him  carefully,  and  he  must  have  enjoyed  his  meal,  for 
he  brought  another  captain  from  his  squadron  with 
him  the  next  day.  There  weren't  enough  cavalry 
officers  at  the  Mouton  Noir  to  make  it  worth  the  pro- 
prietor's while  to  feed  them  well,  so  they  ate  badly, 
and  soon  began  to  suffer  from  indigestion. 

Silver-striped  horsemen  and  gilt-striped  foot-soldiers 
ate  together,  just  as  amicably  as  before  the  invasion 
from  the  Mouton  Noir;  they  passed  each  other  bread 
and  salt,  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world,  but  the  conversation,  which  flowed  in  the 
usual  channels, — food  and  women, — was  monopolized 
by  the  cuirassiers. 

It  was  only  the  civilians  who  discussed  the  relative 
merits  of  Cavalry  and  Infantry,  and  they  did  this  after 
the  officers  had  left  the  dining-room.  M.  Verhard  was 
the  cuirassiers'  most  violent  partisan,  and  he  always 
disposed  of  the  younger  Pluvinage, — once  an  artillery- 
man, and  now  a  waiter  in  his  father's  hotel, — by 
declaring: 

"  It  takes  six-foot  soldiers  to  surround  one  of  our 
spur-boys." 


THE  SCREEN  203 

Then  the  line  regiment  left  town  for  a  few  days' 
drill,  and  the  cavalry  officers  were  more  at  their  ease. 
They  brought  another  bachelor  to  try  the  food:  Cap- 
tain Count  de  Pisselet.  His  eyebrows  were  very 
prominent,  and  they  pushed  the  skin  of  his  forehead 
up  towards  his  shiny  blond  hair,  causing  three  deep 
wrinkles;  his  mouth  was  crooked,  and  it  hung  open 
slightly.  The  astonished  civilians,  upon  whom  his 
scornful  eyes  never  rested  even  for  a  moment,  spoke 
to  each  other  in  low  voices.  Amazement  seemed  to 
have  untied  the  knot  at  M.  Verhard's  nose,  and  his 
face  spread  to  a  normal  size.  The  table  was  now  oc- 
cupied by  two  distinct  sets:  a  huddled  group  of 
civilians  at  the  end  nearest  the  courtyard,  and  the 
cuirassiers  by  the  window  looking  on  to  the  square. 

Captain  Count  de  Pisselet  had  not  wished  to  par- 
take of  M.  Pluvinage's  food  while  the  infantry  were 
in  evidence,  and  now  he  wanted  to  do  so  permanently, 
but  without  compromising  the  honour  of  the  regiment. 
He  beckoned  to  M.  Pluvinage,  who  came  and  leaned 
with  both  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair  upon  which  he 
first  placed  his  serving  napkin.  The  old  man  was  bent 
over  with  rheumatism,  and  he  looked  as  though  he 
ought  to  be  passing  the  collection  plate  in  church, 
with  his  smooth-shaven  face  and  black  cloth  skull-cap. 

He  made  the  customary  remarks  to  the  officers  in 
the  doleful  voice  men  use  when  they  wish  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  they  are  getting  rich: 


204  PEOPLE 

"  We  try  hard  to  please  you,  gentlemen.  Do  you 
find  everything  to  your  liking?  Butter's  thirty-eight 
sous  a  pound,  but  you  always  have  plenty  of  it.  It's 
no  joke  nowadays  to  run  a  hotel.  Not  like  selling 
drinks  over  a  bar,  where  you've  only  got  to  pour 
out  ... " 

"Yes,  yes.  Quite  true,"  interrupted  Count  de 
Pisselet,  shortening  his  face  by  closing  his  mouth. 
"  But  we  want  you  to  arrange  a  separate  service  for 
us  in  a  room  to  ourselves.  There  will  be  five  alto- 
gether. Will  you  please  see  to  this?  " 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  said  M.  Pluvinage;  "  you  can 
have  a  room  on  the  floor  above.  Same  price:  a  hun- 
dred francs  a  month,  wine  included.  And  good  wine 
it  is,  too!  I  choose  it  myself,  and  there's  no  cellar 
in  this  town  can  touch  mine.  Everybody  knows  I 
can  tell  the  good  from  the  bad." 

In  the  kitchen  Mme.  Pluvinage  warned  him: 

"  You'll  lose  customers  if  you  do  it.  I  call  it  an 
insult  to  the  infantry!  They  never  make  any  fuss, 
and  they  like  everything  we  give  them.  It's  another 
story  with  Count  de  Pisselet;  nothing  satisfies  him." 

When  the  infantry  came  back  to  town,  M.  Pluvinage 
said  to  them: 

"  Put  yourselves  in  my  place;  I've  got  to  earn  my 
living,  and  there's  all  kinds  of  customers  to  please 
when  you're  in  the  hotel  business." 

They  didn't  take  offence,  and  on  St.  Justine's  Day 


THE  SCREEN  205 

they  sent  their  usual  bouquet  to  Mme.  Pluvinage,  who 
opened  champagne  for  them  and  kissed  them  all 
round.  She  didn't  go  upstairs  to  the  cuirassiers,  for 
they  were  waited  upon  by  the  scullion,  who  wore  the 
frock  coat  in  which  M.  Pluvinage  was  married. 

The  cook  was  furious  at  the  cuirassiers  for  depriv- 
ing him  of  the  scullion  when  he  most  needed  him,  and 
he  frequently  sent  them  up  trimmings  and  the  tough 
outside  cuts,  in  spite  of  the  eagle  eye  of  his  employer. 
M.  Pluvinage  was  anxious  not  to  lose  five  boarders  at 
a  hundred  francs  each,  and  it  was  a  feather  in  his  cap 
to  have  enticed  them  away  from  the  Mouton  Noir. 
However,  one  of  them  could  no  longer  endure  the  sight 
of  the  scullion's  hands,  and  went  back.  Two  others 
got  married,  and  in  November  only  Count  de  Pisselet 
and  the  second  arrival  remained. 

They  had  to  have  an  extra  supply  of  fuel,  and  lights 
in  the  evening,  for  they  generally  stayed  after  dinner 
to  smoke  by  the  fire.  It  wasn't  worth  while  to  upset 
the  kitchen  for  two  customers,  and  M.  Pluvinage 
courageously  climbed  the  stairs  to  tell  them  so,  and 
to  ask  them  to  come  down  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Think  what  you  are  saying,"  was  Count  de 
Pisselet's  only  reply,  but  his  companion  was  more 
practical: 

"  Put  us  in  the  dining-room,  but  apart  from  the 
others;  a  little  table  with  a  screen  around  it."  And 
Count  de  Pisselet  agreed  with  him. 


206  PEOPLE 

M.  Phi  village  reached  a  decision  at  once,  without 
even  consulting  his  wife;  he  well  knew  what  her 
answer  would  be. 

"  No,  gentlemen,  it's  impossible!  I  can't  insult  my 
old  customers  like  that.  I've  got  a  reputation  to  keep 
up,  too.  And,  anyhow,  there  isn't  a  screen  in  the 
house." 

"  All  right,  all  right,"  said  Count  de  Pisselet,  "  we 
won't  insist." 

They  got  what  they  deserved,  and  now  they're  back 
at  the  Mouton  Noir,  getting  thinner  every  day. 


THE  EUROPEAN  LIBRARY 


THE  EUROPEAN  LIBRARY 

Edited  by  J.  L.  SPINGARN 

This  series  is  intended  to  introduce  foreign  authors  whose 
works  are  not  accessible  in  English,  and  in  general  to  keep 
Americans  in  touch  with  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  ferment 
of  the  continent  of  Europe.  No  attempt  will  be  made  to  give 
what  Americans  miscall  "  the  best  books,"  if  by  this  is  meant 
conformity  to  some  high  and  illusory  standard  of  past  great- 
ness; any  twentieth-century  book  which  displays  creative  power 
or  a  new  outlook  or  more  than  ordinary  intsrest  or  charm  will 
be  eligible  for  inclusion.  Nor  will  the  attempt  be  made  to 
select  books  that  merely  confirm  American  standards  of  taste 
or  morals,  since  the  series  is  intended  to  serve  as  a  mirror  of 
European  culture  and  not  as  a  glass  through  which  it  may 
be  seen  darkly.  Fiction  will  predominate,  but  belles  lettres, 
poetry,  philosophy,  social  and  economic  discussion,  history, 
biography,  and  other  fields  will  be  represented. 

"The  first  organized  effort  to  bring  into  English  a  series  of  the 
really  significant  figures  in  contemporary  European  literature.  .  .  . 
An  undertaking  as  creditable  and  as  ambitious  as  any  of  its  kind 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic." — New  fork  Evening  Post. 

THE  WORLD'S  ILLUSION.     By  J.  WASSERMANN.    Translated  by 
Ludwig  Lewisohn.    Two  volumes.     (Second  printing.) 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  creative  works  of  our  time,  revolving 
about  the  experiences  of  a  man  who  sums  up  the  wealth  and  culture  of 
our  age  yet  finds  them  wanting.  The  first  volume  depicts  the  life  of 
the  upper  classes  of  European  society,  the  second  is  a  very  Inferno  of 
the  Slums;  and  the  whole  mirrors,  with  extraordinary  insight,  the 
beauty  and  sorrow,  the  power  and  weakness  of  our  social  and  spiritual 
world.  "  A  human  comedy  in  the  great  sense,  which  no  modern  can 
afford  not  to  hear." — H.  W.  Boynton,  in  the  Weekly  Review. 

PEOPLE.    By  PIERRE  HAMP.    Translated  by  James  Whitall.    With 
an  Introduction  by  Elizabeth  Shepley  Sergeant. 

Introducing  one  of  the  most  significant  writers  of  France,  himself 
a  working  man,  who  in  these  stories  of  the  French  underworld  ex- 
presses the  new  self-consciousness  of  the  worker's  outlook. 


THE  NEW  SOCIETY.  By  WALTER  RATHENAU.  Translated  by 
Arthur  Windham. 

One  of  Germany's  most  influential  thinkers  and  men  of  action  pre- 
sents his  vision  of  die  new  society  emerging  out  of  the  War. 

DECADENCE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  ON  THE  CULTURE  OF 
IDEAS.  By  REMY  DE  GOURMONT.  Translated  by  William 
Aspenwall  Bradley. 

The  first  authorized  version  of  the  critical  work  of  one  of  the  great 
aesthetic  thinkers  of  France. 

IN  PREPARATION 

THE  PATRIOT.  By  HEINRICH  MANN.  Translated  by  Ernest  A. 
Boyd. 

The  career  of  a  typical  product  of  militarism,  in  school,  university, 
business,  patriotism,  and  love,  told  with  a  biting  incisiveness  and 
irony. 

THE  REFORM  OF  EDUCATION.  By  GIOVANNI  GENTILE.  With 
an  Introduction  by  BENEDETTO  CROCE.  Translated  by  Dino 
Bigongiari. 

A  new  interpretation  of  the  meaning  of  education,  by  one  who 
shares  with  Croce  the  leadership  of  Italian  thought  to-day. 

A  POET'S  LOVES:  FROM  THE  UNPUBLISHED  MANUSCRIPTS 
OF  VICTOR  HUGO.  By  Louis  BARTHOU.  Translated  by 
Daniel  Crehange  Rosenthal. 

A  striking,  not  to  say  sensational,  revelation  of  the  intimate  private 
life  of  a  great  poet,  by  an  ex-Premier  of  France. 


HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


AM 
7-4 

A 


AUG  12  1965 


/O  LC-'JRL 


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M^f 


-  10 

as 


JAN 


201976 


T970 


1976 

S*i* 

raft 


n 


Form"L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


3  1158008404757 


2  5 

o  ~ 


PLEACE  DO   NOT    REMOVE 


University  Research  Library 


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